


The Company

by CasCase



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet Company Politics, Ballet Dancer Castiel (Supernatural), Ballet Dancer Dean Winchester, Brief discussion of past alcohol/drug use, Cas is 37, Dean is 29, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Social drinking, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, switching implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasCase/pseuds/CasCase
Summary: From the time he was young, Dean Winchester dreamed of becoming a principal dancer at the New York Ballet Company alongside his idol, Castiel Novak. With Novak coming out of early retirement to dance one final season, Dean’s year-long internship with them is timed perfectly. Now, he just needs to not blow his chance, no matter how attractive Novak turns out to be.After an unexpected retirement and even less expected return to ballet, Castiel Novak is dancing one final season with the New York Ballet Company before joining the Board of Directors. He can’t afford distractions, especially ones with a future at the company he’s destined to run.





	1. Act I: Showcase

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, it's here already?? I feel like we just submitted rough drafts yesterday! I'm overjoyed to finally get to share this fic with you. I grew up as a dancer, so ballet has always been close to my heart. Even if you know nothing about dance, I hope that you are able to follow our favorite two idjits as they fall in love (sorry, spoiler :-P) in front of the backdrop of classical ballet. There are links in some of the chapters to videos that might help you visualize some of the things Dean and Cas are doing throughout the story.
> 
> Okay, I want to keep this short, but a few things before we begin! One, an enormous thank-you and shout-out to Busy Squirrel, the fabulous artist that I happened to be lucky enough to get paired up with again this year! Busy, it's been wonderful working with you again, and the art you did for this is just stunning. Seriously, go give her [masterpost](https://bs-acorns.tumblr.com/post/183269874463) all of the reblogs and bask in its beauty!! I'm still staring at them in awe.
> 
> Also, thank you so, so much to my beta, Hannah, for poking at me to write this story for, like, ever, and then being kind enough to work with me on it even though she's kind of out of SPN fandom at the moment (though she writes great [Sterek fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_bo/works)!).
> 
> Finally, eternal, infinite thanks to Mittens and Cass for continuing to run this great Festival of Pining. I'm so proud to be a part of something this spectacular.

_Dean_

The studio smelled like sweat, worn leather, and sun-warmed hardwood floors. Late morning sunlight streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall, the space deep enough to avoid having direct sunlight hit the mirrors that lined the front. The wooden barre that ran the length of the room was silky-smooth and cool under his hand as Dean Winchester slid into a spot along a side wall. Not exactly prime real estate, but nobody liked a rookie stealing the spotlight.

“Hey! Winchester!”

Dean turned and smiled as a few fellow dancers walked past, waving briefly at them as they went to their own spots at the barre. Several dancers were already stretching in the center, laughing and chatting, catching up after the long company summer break. Dean slipped into first position with his hand on the barre, tamping down on the butterflies in his stomach. Taking deep breaths, he settled into his warm-up routine: first pulsing into a shallow _plié_ before sinking slowly into a deep _grand plié_. It felt good to concentrate on something familiar in an unfamiliar space. No matter how impressive the company, all ballet studios were essentially the same.

After six years dancing with his hometown company, the Kansas City Ballet Theatre, he’d finally had the balls to audition for his dream job at the New York Ballet Company. And, hey, it’d just been pure chance that his little brother, Sam, was starting law school at Columbia this fall. They’d been apart for four years while Sam attended Stanford for undergrad, while Dean danced his way through the ranks of the KCBT. Sam had flown home to surprise him at the end of a particularly good run as Mercutio in _Romeo and Juliet_ and planted the thought in Dean’s head, the over-involved moose.

“Hey, man, we could even get an apartment together,” Sam had proposed, his enthusiasm barely hidden behind those annoying puppy-dog eyes.

So, Dean had hopped on a plane (well, had been dragged onto a plane by said moose of a little brother) and joined an open audition for the company of his dreams.

He’d danced partial variations from the assigned classical ballets in this very studio while several serious and famous faces frowned at him behind clipboards. He’d nearly puked all over his ballet slippers when Naomi fucking Novak herself dismissed him from the room.

In the end, he hadn’t quite secured a place, but he’d been offered a very promising opportunity.

_Advanced Apprentice Soloist_ , his contract read. One year to dance with the most prestigious ballet company in the country as an extended audition for the next season. Still, it was enough to get him into a sixth-floor walk-up in a less-shitty-than-expected area of Brooklyn with Sam and a foot in the door.

His hamstrings protested through a _port de bras_ in the threadbare joggers he’d thrown on this morning while rushing out the door. Moving had been a bitch, even though most of his stuff he’d sold or put in storage at Bobby’s. He’d only brought as much as Baby could carry, even though Bobby had driven off in it afterward. Parking was way too expensive in the city to keep her.

“Not a scratch, you hear me old man?” Dean had groused, handing over the keys.

“What do you think I am? New?” Bobby had grumbled back before pulling Dean into a tight hug. Dean wrapped his arms around his stepfather, memories of drives back and forth to dance classes at the good studio two hours away flashing through his mind.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean said. Bobby just cleared his throat and patted him on the back before pulling away. Dean had hugged his mom good-bye, too, before the tears glistening in her eyes could become full-on waterworks.

They’d try to make it for Thanksgiving, weather permitting. Maybe bring Ellen and Jo. It would be the longest Dean had gone without seeing his mom and Bobby in his entire life.

Dean was drawn from his thoughts by a sudden chattering and round of applause as a group of well-dressed people walked through the studio doors. Most of them were familiar from his audition but also countless production stills and company promos. It looked like all of the creative directors, plus most of the board. Dean wiped his hands surreptitiously on his joggers as he moved away from the barre and toward the center of the floor where the whole company had gathered. He’d just barely joined in the applause before a pointed-faced man with a large, shiny forehead waved them off. Zachariah Adler, executive director.

“Please, please, we should be applauding _you_!” he said, voice unctuous and full of pride. “You’re the real reason we’re here! Welcome back, everyone! And welcome, new faces! As you know, I’m Zachariah Adler, executive director of the company, and I have with me today several members of the board and creative staff. I am very please to introduce Naomi Novak, board president.”

Next to Adler a very stern-looking woman with deep red hair nodded, gazing out at the dancers with a pinched expression. Even in her heyday as a dancer, Naomi Novak had never smiled. Critics had called her the “Ice Queen” because she’d danced like that, too: precise, technical, and cold. Dean stood up a little straighter as she turned her steely glare through the crowd.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice clipped and serious. “We are incredibly happy to welcome you all back, and to greet our newest company members. You are all the gifted artists that create the excellence the New York Ballet Company is known for, and the board and I are looking forward to another unparalleled season. Before we begin, I have an announcement on behalf of the board and the creative directors. As you may know, I announced my intention to retire at the end of this season during our Spring Gala. The board has voted unanimously on my replacement, and it is with great pride that I share with you that Richard Roman is now board president-elect.”

The reaction among the dancers was mixed at best. Dean clapped dutifully, as the businessman waved to them from behind Naomi’s shoulder, but there was a hiss of whispers through the group amongst the lukewarm applause. Roman appeared to notice, or maybe he always kind of looked like he was sneering. Naomi held up a hand for silence.

“In addition, the vacancy on the board has been filled as well. I am also proud to announce the appointment of my son, Castiel Novak, to the board upon his own retirement from performance at the end of the season.”

A true tremor went through the crowd of dancers at that. Many turned to their neighbors and began whispering furiously, while Dean’s own eyebrows shot into his hair.

Castiel Novak was _retiring_?

The man in question stumbled forward from the crowd as a shorter, golden-haired man in a flamboyant suit—his brother, Gabriel—grabbed his wrist and yanked him to the front. Castiel Novak turned with a face as pursed-looking as his mother’s and nodded curtly at the group. Finally, someone seemed to get it together and the dancers began to clap, one by one, until a raucous round of applause echoed through the studio. Novak shook it off with a hand before melting back into the mass of dancers. Naomi stared at him for long moment before moving on.

“And so, without further ado, let the new season begin!”

As the suits left the room, all talking very seriously with heads inclined closely toward each other, the dancers all chattered amongst themselves again, spreading out to their favored places along the barre. Dean was heading back toward the spot he’d claimed earlier when he bumped into someone already occupying it.

“Whoa, sorry,” Dean said, turning toward them. It was another male dancer, shorter than Dean, with closely cut, brown curly hair and a strong dusting of stubble across his cheeks and jaw. Dean licked his lips reflexively, then realized he was checking the other guy out. By the time he remembered to make eye contact again, Five O’Clock Shadow was smirking at him, eyes full of mirth.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Aaron, by the way,” he said, holding out a hand for Dean to shake. “Aaron Bass, _corps de ballet_.”

Dean shook his hand, hoping it wasn’t as clammy as it had felt earlier. “Dean Winchester, soloist.” Aaron nodded appreciatively.

“Nice. Hey, why don’t you pull up some barre?” he said, gesturing at the spot in front of him. Dean grinned.

“Thanks. New guy, don’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”

“Yeah, depending on whose they are, they’re probably insured.”

“Dude, no way.”

Aaron shrugged. “I mean, my feet aren’t special, but somebody like Anna Novak? You hear rumors, that’s all I’m saying.”

Dean looked across the room to where Anna Novak was rolling her feet and ankles in her own warm-ups. She looked just as ethereal in person as she did onstage.

_Dude, chill. She’s a dancer, just like you._

“I wouldn’t know,” Dean laughed. “I’m just a midwestern boy. Don’t know much about big-city types.”

“Well, I’m just a kid from Jersey whose mom still doesn’t get why he can’t come home for Shabbat every week.”

Aaron turned out to be Dean’s kind of guy. He was halfway through regaling Dean with tales of the epic opening-weekend brunches thrown by the company when they were interrupted by three sharp claps.

“All right, everyone,” Ballet Mistress Josie Sands’ cool voice rang out. The room immediately fell silent (they didn’t call her “Abaddon the Destroyer” behind her back for nothing). “Welcome back. Let’s dust the summer vacation off of you.”

For as nervous as Dean had been, and as brutal as Abaddon’s workout was, he fell into the rhythm of class easily. It was so familiar, so much like the classes he’d had back home, that he reveled in it. He’d never felt so alive as when he was dancing.

Well, it was almost the same. By the end of the two hour long class, Dean was dripping sweat and almost ready to keel over. Admittedly, he hadn’t kept up with his own training over the vacation as much as he should have, but he’d spent it with Sam and his family, enjoying the last few months that they’d be close before Dean and Sam went to New York for the foreseeable future.

“You gonna make it, bud?” Aaron asked when it was finally over, laughing and clapping Dean on the back.

“Oh yeah,” Dean huffed, shaking out his legs. “She always like that?”

“Of course.”

The deep voice coming from so nearby startled Dean, whose eyes flashed up to see who was speaking and was immediately caught by an intense blue gaze. The blood drained from Dean’s face and settled in the pit of his stomach. Someone cleared their throat (it might have been Aaron), and Dean realized he was staring.

But Castiel Novak was staring right back, so . . .

“She’s part of what maintains the excellence of this company,” he said, his voice deeper than Dean remembered from the television interviews he’d seen. “If you can’t keep up, then perhaps you’ve entered the wrong profession.”

“Th-that’s not—I didn’t mean—” Dean blinked a few times to clear Novak’s piercing gaze from his head and tried again. “Dean Winchester,” he said, extending his hand. “New soloist.”

Novak looked down at Dean’s hand so long that Dean nearly dropped it before Novak grasped it firmly and shook it once. “Yes, I know who you are,” he said. “The Kansas apprentice.”

Dean thought he might need to be insulted by that, but he couldn’t really feel his hands and feet, so he concentrated on standing while Novak kept a steady grip on the hand Dean had extended.

“Right, uh . . .”

Aaron’s voice broke the moment, and Dean jerked his hand back, trying to shake feeling back into his extremities.

“Um, nice to meet you,” Dean managed before Novak nodded again, stared for another few seconds, then turned and walked out of the door.

“You know they say ‘never meet your heroes,’ right?” Aaron said as Dean watched Novak gather his things and leave the studio with Anna and Gabriel. Dean wiped his hands on his joggers again.

“Yeah, shut up,” he said, and Aaron burst out laughing.

It was going to be a long fucking season.

*****

“I’m so screwed.”

“Whatever, Dean, you’ll be fine,” Sam’s voice said, a little tinny on the cell phone. “I mean, he’s the best dancer in the company, and a really good choreographer, right?”

“Try ‘top fifteen male ballet dancer in history’ and ‘best new up-and-coming choreographer according to the New York Times’. Dude’s a friggin’ genius, Sammy.”

“So he’s gotta get the top pick, yeah? Which means he must’ve liked you.” A sound like shuffling papers in the background probably meant Sam was packing up in his office before his next class. “And it’s _Sam_.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “He probably hates me. ‘ _Kansas apprentice_.’ Like I’m some backwoods hick who doesn’t know a _fouetté_ from a fuckin’ _tendú_. I placed in the damn Youth America Grand Prix—”

“Yeah, I know. Look, Dean, I’ve gotta get to class, but we can talk more at home, ‘kay?”

Dean scuffed his sneaker against the concrete. “Whatever. Go kick ass, bitch.”

“You, too, jerk.”

Dean watched the screen on his phone go blank long after Sam had hung up, turning it over and over in his fingers. He’d been given his casting assignments less than an hour ago, and he was already expected in rehearsals for the winter choreographer’s showcase. He’d been given a fairly easy performance schedule, considering, only dancing two full ballets in the fall, and one in the spring. He was pretty jazzed about _La Bayadere_ and getting put into the Russian number in _The Nutcracker_ , but his heart had fallen into his shoes when he saw the last assignment: Featured Soloist in New Contemporary Work by Castiel Novak.

Sam was convinced it was because Novak thought he was good. Dean was sure it was because the universe loved to fuck with the Winchesters.

Besides, Novak hadn’t even seen him dance! Aside from company class on the first day, they hadn’t even really been in the same room together. Sure, he’d done combinations in the center and exercises across the floor, but there was no way Novak was even looking at him, much less noticing his dancing ability.

The alarm went off on his phone telling him it was time to head to rehearsal. He huffed a curse under his breath to himself and rushed back into the building to make it on time.

When he made it to the studio, it was completely empty except for Novak and a redhead who was _not_ Anna. She was dressed in a “Han Shot First” t-shirt and baggy cargo pants, fiddling with a camera on a tripod, and Dean decided he already liked her. Novak was pacing the small studio floor, marking out steps as he looked at invisible lines on the ground. Dean had seen enough choreographers in “the zone” to know better than to interrupt. He moved over to the redhead with the camera, dropping his bag in front of the mirror.

“Hey, I’m Dean,” he said, reaching out a hand. She grinned at him and shook it.

“Charlie Bradbury. I work in IT. Novak here asked me to run some tech for him for your rehearsal.” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“He needs help setting up a video camera?” he asked quietly. Charlie shrugged.

“Not his area. He’s, uh, not great with technology.”

“I heard that, Bradbury.”

Novak was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Dean’s heart started to race; the moment of truth was quickly approaching.

“Well, I’ll just . . . take off then,” Charlie said, backing away. “Call me if you need any help.”

Novak stared at Dean. Dean fidgeted uncomfortably under the gaze, willing his heart rate to go back to normal. It would definitely leave the wrong impression on the board if he collapsed in rehearsal.

“You’re charismatic and undertrained,” Novak began bluntly, moving toward Dean before veering over to the camera and sound equipment, squinting at the camera on its tripod, “Which happens to be what I’m looking for in this piece.”

Dean swallowed against an indignant reply, aiming for _disarming_ instead. “So, what’s the game? Needed someone tall, dark, and handsome?”

“No. If I’d needed that, I would have asked Ezekiel.”

“Oh, so you think he’s prettier than me?”

Novak turned his squint on Dean, head tilting like a bird. “Are you always like this, or is it a defense mechanism when you are intimidated by a situation?”

Dean swallowed hard again. _Shit_. “The uh. The second one.”

Novak left his camera and moved closer to him, steps long and graceful, until he was close, far too close. The air in the room was suddenly too thick, and Dean licked his lips self-consciously. Then, Novak _hovered_ ; Dean could feel the heat radiating from his body. Dean’s eyes slid over Novak’s face, unable to meet his eyes.

“Then _stop_ ,” Novak finally murmured. Dean nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

A hot blush made its way up Dean’s neck and a panicked deflection was already forming in his mind, but Novak simply raised an eyebrow, then turned and walked away. Which, huh, that was actually . . . a pretty good angle . . .

_Do not stare at his ass . . . do NOT stare at his ass . . ._

After a few more moments of messing with the camera, during which Dean took the opportunity to step out of his street clothes and warm up, Novak moved into the middle of the floor with him.

“Like I said, undertrained charm is one of your assets. It makes you seem believable. I want to spend some time with the music, just getting a feel of it.”

He lifted a remote and pointed it at an iPod dock in the corner. A plucky pop song began to play, and Dean doubled over in laughter.

“Dude, really?”

The look Novak shot him froze his insides, so Dean straightened up and listened. After a moment, he thought he heard what Novak liked about it; there was a smooth through line, a lilting rhythm, and after he got over the initial shock of the artist, he could start to feel the pull in his body. Once the song was over, he almost didn’t notice the silence. He blinked his eyes open (when had he closed them?), and saw Novak staring again, gazing openly at Dean with a peculiar expression. It smoothed some of the care lines that gathered around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. Dean’s stomach lurched and he looked away quickly.

Oh, god, what the hell had Dean gotten himself into?

Rehearsal was almost as grueling as Abaddon’s class had been. The song was _long_ , though not as long as some of the variations Dean had danced for performance and competition throughout the years. But Novak wanted pure emotion, something that Dean had always admired about him as a dancer, but kind of wanted to kill him for as a choreographer.

“Point your feet, please,” he demanded, deep voice able to carry over the music even though he wasn’t speaking very loudly. “Extension is important, especially since your bowed legs inhibit your natural lines.”

Dean had to remind himself, yet again, that Novak was the genius here, but part of him wanted to show him exactly what kind of extension his bowed legs could achieve (by kicking him; Dean wanted to kick him).

After another run-through of the roughly blocked choreography, Novak turned off the stereo and stopped the camera.

“I think that’s enough to get us started,” he said flatly. Dean grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and used it to wipe his incredibly sweaty forehead. He would probably need to use the company showers before taking the train back to his apartment. “I—we—ahem, we should both review the footage I filmed today and be prepared for our next session.”

Dean shrugged into his joggers and tied the drawstring. “Sounds good. I’ll spend some time working that last combo.”

“If it proves too difficult, I am happy to change it.”

“No, no,” Dean said, shifting his bag onto his shoulder and looking up at Novak. A curious look crossed those blue eyes before Novak busied himself with the camera again. “It’s gonna be badass, I just have to work the transition.”

“Well, then. I’ll see you for rehearsal tomorrow, then.”

With little ceremony, and no more words, Novak removed the camera from the tripod, knocking the tripod to the ground with a clatter, before he mumbled something Dean didn’t catch and hurried from the room. Dean watched after him for a while, completely confused about what just happened.

“Guess Aaron was right,” he muttered to himself as he headed to shower. “Never meet your heroes.”

 

_Castiel_

Castiel stumbled over his own feet in his rush to flee the studio, clutching the camera so it didn’t go flying down the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one saw; he was an experienced principal dancer and couldn’t afford to be seen as clumsy.

It was all Dean Winchester’s fault.

He hurried quickly to the company’s IT department, holding the camera close to his chest in case he faltered again. He was lucky, though, and made it to Charlie’s office without further incident. She looked up from her computer screen, startled, but grinned when she saw him.

“Done with the dreamboat already?” she asked. Castiel’s face heated up.

“I don’t—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered, but she merely quirked an eyebrow. Castiel scowled. “Please help me remove the footage from this infernal device so that I may view it properly.” Charlie laughed.

“Technology isn’t going to bite you, y’know,” she said, but she held her hand out for the camera, anyway. “This is pretty outdated, actually. Did you know you can actually record moving pictures with your _portable telephone_ now?”

“Yes, you’re very witty. I’ve never heard such jests about my lack of interest in modern technology.” He paused. “Though, texting I like. Emoticons.”

Charlie shook her head. “Okay, genius dancer man, let’s see what you’re working with.”

She plugged the camera into her computer, and several moments later a full-screen video of Dean appeared. “Is there anything you want me to copy for you?” she asked.

“I can’t get the entire thing?”

“Two hours of video? That’s a huge file. I’ll cut it into pieces, that way it’s easier to transfer. I can upload it into a file share for you, but is there anything you want to go home with?”

Castiel thought back over the rehearsal, tamping down images of how the middle section particularly showed off the flex of Dean’s shoulder muscles, and how he’d stopped himself repeatedly to go back to one tricky combination. It hadn’t been something Castiel expected, but Dean was a perfectionist. Charlie cleared her throat.

“Just the final run-through,” he said, ignoring her pointed look. “It should be very close to the end.”

Charlie skipped through the video until Castiel indicated she should stop. She pressed a few keys, then let the file play.

He knew it was just a rehearsal, that one tiny piece in a choreographer showcase wasn’t enormous in the grand scheme, but he watched Charlie’s reactions out of the corner of his eye. Seeing it like this, Castiel had to acknowledge Dean was good. The charisma he’d wanted came across in spades, and there was no denying that Dean was beautiful. He had incredible lines, despite his naturally hampered extension, and there was a strong heart in his dancing. If this was his last chance to choreograph his own work before he joined the board, then he wanted it to represent him.

“Huh,” Charlie said as the video stopped. Castiel glanced down at her. “He’s kinda dreamy.” Castiel sighed.

“Yes, he’s aesthetically pleasing. May I have my recording so I can go now?”

Charlie presented him with a thumb drive, which he tucked in his pocket before thanking her and heading home for the day.

“Castiel.”

Castiel froze by the bank of elevators and attempted to school his expression before turning to face the speaker. “Hello, Mother.”

Naomi pursed her lips and leveled him with her patented icy stare. “Will you be joining the board for the opening luncheon on Friday?”

“Do I have a choice?”

If possible, Naomi’s mouth got even smaller. “I don’t think I need to warn you, Castiel, that certain things are expected of you now. Decorum, for one, and a sense of responsibility for another. Your sour attitude is better suited for the dusty roadside motels you seemed to favor during your last year of indiscretion than here at The Company.”

She always managed to make those words sound _capitalized_. Castiel managed a sardonic smile.

“Of course, Mother. I will see you on Friday at the luncheon.”

He reached for the call button, but her cool hand on his wrist stopped him. “I cannot impress upon you how serious this is. You’ve had your rebellion, now please stop behaving like a hormonal teenager and straighten. Up.”

By some miracle, Castiel managed to hold his tongue, and simply nodded. “Of course, Mother,” he repeated. She continued to stare at him until the elevator arrived with a sharp _ding_ and a few of the company’s executive assistants wandered out, chatting and laughing. Castiel stepped away from Naomi on instinct, but the two women ignored them. After all, it was a badly-kept secret that Naomi Novak’s son was an enormous disappointment.

Naomi turned her back on him and walked away before the elevator doors slid shut. Castiel slumped against the railing and dragged a hand down his face. The whole situation with the board was a complete mess. He’d really rather be anywhere _but_ at that luncheon.

He needed to make sure his suit was cleaned before Friday.

*****

“If you aren’t pointing your feet, then what is the point of this?” Castiel growled over the music, watching Dean roll through the difficult end combination for what was probably the fiftieth time that week (and it was only Wednesday). Dean didn’t reply, but the set of his jaw tightened and suddenly his movements became slightly sharper.

“Don’t tense up,” Castiel admonished, and he saw Dean’s shoulders loosen a little.

It had been three weeks since rehearsals began, and there was still something missing from the piece. The other movements in Castiel’s showcase were coming along nicely; the _pas de deux_ featuring newly promoted soloist Gilda and her strong partner Inias was good enough that even Castiel admitted it was “lovely.” But something about this solo piece wasn’t working the way Castiel wanted it to.

The music stopped, and Dean planted his feet hard into a jazz second position (which, with feet shoulder width apart and toes pointed forward, highlighted the bowed legs Castiel refused to find endearing), emphasizing the ending. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his sweat-soaked t-shirt. The lines of his elegant neck disappeared below the collar, and the light color of the fabric made it a little translucent when damp, showing the pink of Dean’s skin. Castiel licked his lips as he tracked a drop of sweat down Dean’s neck.

“Passable,” he said, clenching his fist to concentrate and he saw Dean deflate. “Let’s try it again, but you need to really feel the crescendo. There should be a noticeable energetic spike during the climax of the music.”

Dean nodded, shaking out his feet, but Castiel could see tension creeping into his shoulders again.

“I need a break,” Dean managed, bringing Castiel’s attention away from his shoulders. Castiel nodded.

“Of course. I’ll re-set, why don’t you take a few minutes to collect yourself?”

Dean barely acknowledged him before trudging over to his water bottle. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped down the contents, and those elegant lines stood out sharply at the extreme angle. Castiel turned away quickly before Dean caught him staring.

The problem Castiel had was that Dean _was_ beautiful. He walked like a cowboy that had just dismounted from his horse, all bow-legs and swagger, but when he danced . . . it was effortless, even if a little bit artless. He’d clearly been well-trained, but not _schooled_. He didn’t dance like the dancers raised in New York. Not to mention the fact that he had the body of Adonis and a charming grin. His green eyes and freckles didn’t hurt, either.

But all of that simply meant trouble. Castiel couldn’t be attracted to company members; he was going to be a member of the Board of Directors, so that meant that no matter how pretty the new guy was, he was very off-limits.

“So, uh, we going again?”

Castiel shook himself from his thoughts to find Dean staring at him curiously. “Yes,” he croaked, and Dean simply walked back to his starting position to let Castiel play the music.

It was obvious that Dean was getting tired, though he pushed through it admirably. By the end, Castiel felt marginally better about the whole thing, but that still didn’t change the fact that the showcase was in two weeks and it felt unfinished.

“We’re going to run through together on Friday,” Castiel said while Dean packed up. “I’d like to see all of the pieces together to find out if that helps.” Dean shrugged.

“Whatever you think, boss,” he said. Something seemed off, but Castiel wasn’t sure how to broach the topic, so he simply nodded.

Castiel had booked the studio for late on Friday night, after everyone else had gone home, since his dancers had rehearsal for other performances during the day. The five dancers were milling in the space, laughing and talking, and it was nice to see them bonding. Especially for Dean, since he was the newest member of the company in the group.

“Cas,” called a soft voice from the corner near the stereo. He smiled and gave Anna a warm hug.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, and she grinned.

“Of course. I can’t believe you let someone into your process like this. I had to jump at the chance.”

Castiel scowled. “You’re making me sound like a stereotype.” Anna laughed.

“Please, you’re the very definition of reclusive artist.”

Castiel didn’t dignify that with a response, but for some reason even that was hilarious, because Anna started laughing again.

She quickly quieted down as he had his dancers got into position. Gilda and Inias’s _pas de deux_ was first, so sweet it was almost saccharine, but it transitioned into the quartet with Gilda, Inias, and two _corps_ members, Kate and Clark, that was darker and more nuanced. Finally, it was Dean’s turn.

It was an excellent run-through, and showed that Castiel had made the right decision with the progression through each piece, but as Dean flawlessly executed all of the troublesome bits toward the end, he didn’t feel the swell in his heart that he wanted.

The music finished, and Castiel and Anna applauded, though Anna’s expression was clouded.

“Excellent work,” Castiel said, and the dancers beamed. He realized, as he looked into their delighted faces, that perhaps he was a little too hard on them. Anna leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Let’s work with Dean a bit,” she said, so he dismissed the others. After he’d ushered the other four out of the studio, he turned back to where Anna was talking closely with Dean. They were standing quite close to each other, Anna murmuring to him while Dean looked at her feet, nodding along. It was actually almost . . . intimate, and a stab of something cold lanced through Castiel’s gut. He cleared his throat as he walked over, and Anna’s gaze shot over to him.

“I’d like to try something,” she said, and Dean immediately moved to his starting position. “Don’t rip my head off if you don’t like it.”

“As long as you let me take credit if it’s good,” he grumbled, but Anna just smiled.

Anna started the music, and Castiel watched carefully for any changes. Everything seemed the same. He watched, waiting, as the music reached its crescendo, but nothing was different until—

Anna raced onto the floor from offstage, throwing herself into the air toward Dean, who caught her around the torso, holding her close and spinning her, with her legs tucked in close to her body. He set her down and she spun away from him, turning the latter half of the dance into a chase. She leapt across the floor, and Dean pursued her; she flew through the air in a _grand jeté_ while he slid across the floor in the opposite direction. Finally, during the combination that Dean had worked so hard to perfect, she twirled around him like a sprite, lifting him up from the ground to slowly revolve to a stop, feet planted in jazz second but facing each other, instead of the audience.

Castiel was struck dumb, but neither Dean nor Anna seemed to notice, as they stared at each other long after the music faded. That cold thing in Castiel’s gut twisted.

Anna broke the moment, turning to grin at Castiel. “So, what did you think?”

He pushed down the icy feeling and forced on a smile. “I hate you,” he said. Anna’s grin widened.

“You’re completely welcome.”

*****

No matter how many premieres Castiel was part of, he would never get over the giant flapping butterflies in his stomach.  It was only through practice that he managed to appear unruffled. The showcase went off without a hitch. His entire cast performed flawlessly, but Dean . . . Dean was stunning, and he and Anna were perfect together. He was proud of them and their work, though he was picking his own work apart down to the final second.

“Holy freakin’ chemistry, Batman,” Charlie said after, tipping her fancy foreign beer toward Dean and Anna, who had struck up a friendship during their rehearsals together. Castiel grit his teeth.

“Yes,” he said shortly. Charlie shoved a large canape into her mouth, not even bothering to stop talking around it.

“Dude, I can’t imagine they won’t ask him to stay. I don’t know shit about ballet, but I can tell you that kind of chemistry wins you Best Kiss at the MTV Movie Awards.”

“Thank you for the vivid imagery,” Castiel droned. He avoided Charlie’s gaze as she looked up at him.

“Dude . . . are you . . . _jealous_?”

Castiel frowned. “No,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t press, but then he spotted Gilda nearby and gestured toward her with his wine glass. “You should go congratulate her,” he said, nudging Charlie in her direction. Charlie turned almost as red as her hair.

“As long as you go follow up with that . . . _whatever_ you’re feeling.”

Castiel didn’t even have any time to worry about fretting about going over to Dean. As soon as Charlie moved away, a familiar set of heels clicked over to him. He immediately straightened his posture and turned to face Naomi.

“Investors have been inquiring about your work, Castiel,” she said without preamble. “You should know that the board is interested in giving you leave to choreograph as a guest next year.”

“Thank you, Mother. I’m glad to know that they are fine with me continuing to _do my job_.” Naomi sighed.

“I’m not sure how many times I must go over this. I will not engage with you here, but you know your responsibilities.” She paused, looking him over. “You should consider tonight a success, considering where you were this time last year.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, I’m glad you think that it’s worthwhile that I was well-received on, what did you call it? _Amateur Night_?”

“You’re behaving like a child, and I won’t have it. I merely meant to congratulate you.”

He bit back his reply. “Thank you,” he said instead. Naomi moved away from him and toward a group of investors somewhere on the other side of the room.

“Wow, she’s . . . something.”

It was credit to how flustered Naomi made him that he hadn’t sensed Dean approach. For some reason, he’d become finely tuned to Dean’s movements, and had started to realize he was there without even a noise from Dean. It was unnerving. Still, he turned toward Dean, who had changed from his costume into a well-fitting (if clearly inexpensive) blue suit. He’d slicked back his hair, which was a strange look on him, but probably easier after the quick post-performance shower. His eyes were bright, cheeks flushed a little pink from the warmth of the room and the half-finished drink in his hand. Castiel’s heart tripped over itself as Dean turned his charming smile on Castiel.

“You look nice,” Castiel said, though that wasn’t what he’d meant. Dean’s charming smile faltered, slipping into something a little more genuine.

“Thank you,” he said, then gave Castiel a quick once-over. “You clean up pretty good, too.” A blush crept up his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he repeated back. A silent moment passed, Castiel gazing at Dean since he had little else to do. As the moment stretched on, he floundered for something to say. “You’re quite popular tonight,” he said, finally. Dean blushed, glancing over at Anna, who was looking their way while chatting with a few other dancers.

“Um, yeah, I guess,” he said. Castiel panicked.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I—I mean, I’m sure you’re popular with . . . with women. No, I meant—hang on, that came out wrong.” He took a steadying breath. “I meant your performance,” he said. “You were noticed.”

“Oh.”

Castiel tightened his grip on the stem of his empty wine glass. “That can only lead to good things,” he added. Dean was gazing at him curiously. Castiel squinted back. “Good things do happen, Dean.” A shadow passed over Dean’s eyes.

“Um, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and looking away. “Thanks, then. Wouldn’t’a been noticed if you hadn’t cast me.” Castiel shook his head.

“No, believe me. You would have on your own.”

Dean brought his eyes back up to stare at Castiel again. Something begged to be said, but Castiel couldn’t for the life of him decide what.

“Congratulations, Cas!”

Anna, demonstrating impeccable timing, hooked her arm through Dean’s and pecked them both on the cheek. “Thank you,” Castiel said. “Of course I couldn’t have done it without you.” Anna waved a hand.

“Nonsense. We agreed you get the credit, right?”

Castiel hummed in response, and it wasn’t long after that when Anna pulled Dean away to meet some of his adoring fans. He definitely, positively, did not stare at Dean’s ass as he walked away.

As the party wound down, a new fear settled over Castiel. Now that the showcase was over, he would have to transition into his role in _The Nutcracker_ , his first time performing since his short-lived retirement. Any distractions (like beautiful apprentice soloists) would have to wait.


	2. Act II: The Nutcracker

_Dean_

“Five-six-seven-eight!”

It had been almost a month since the showcase, but it had only taken a week for Dean to be knocked down a peg. Rehearsals for _The Nutcracker_ had begun in earnest in early November, gearing up for a Thanksgiving weekend premiere. Dean had been cast as a partygoer and in the Russian dance in the second act, which had been exciting at the time. Now, he was drenched head to toe in sweat, struggling to keep his spot through spinning leaps, and his legs ached in places he didn’t even know he had. Gabriel, the golden-haired executive, was also one of the assistant ballet masters, and considered the Russian dance his baby every year.

“Leap, my pretties!” Gabriel called over the music. “Leap!”

The trouble with the Russian dance was that it was nothing _but_ leaps and jumps, which was a far cry from the languid extensions and fluidity of Castiel’s contemporary piece. Dean had been in the number before, but apparently Kansas City’s version was nowhere near as energetic as New York’s.

The music ended, Dean bounced to a stop, and froze, waiting for Gabriel’s judgement. He got up and walked toward the dancers, tapping his chin.

“I guess that’ll do, boys,” he said, but then he broke into a grin and Dean breathed more easily. Aaron even collapsed on the ground in relief. Gabriel was a Novak, but he was probably the most easy-going of the clan. Dean had been spending more time getting to know his fellow company members, and quickly found out that Castiel kept to himself most of the time. He mostly hung out with Anna, and Gabriel on rare occasions. Charlie, who was in IT but was friends with some of the dancers, said that Castiel was actually pretty cool, once you got to know him.

That was the problem. Dean wanted to get to know him a little _too_ much.

But then, it wasn’t entirely Dean’s fault. As a young dancer in a small town in the Midwest, Dean had been the only boy in all of his studio’s classes. Every once in a while another boy would join for part of a year or so, but it always ended the same: Dean on his own, surrounded by little girls in tutus. As he got older, and it became clear to his teachers that Dean had some talent, they’d suggested more serious studios in nearby towns, even though his parents had struggled to afford their small-town offering.

That had all changed when Dean was ten. His studio had taken a field trip to see one of the regional finals of the prestigious Youth America Grand Prix. Dean hadn’t heard of the rigorous national competition, but after that day he talked and thought about little else.

On stage that afternoon, the senior-level finals for students age 16-19 had captivated him. There were girls in tutus, sure, but the amazing thing was the boys. Young men. Guys that did ballet and took it seriously, and were actually really _good_! He knew there were male ballet dancers, in theory, but those were grown-ups, professionals. These students were boys like _him_. He was enraptured.

Then, near the end of the day, he’d watched eighteen-year-old Castiel Novak dance the Albrecht variation from the second act of _Giselle_ , and he couldn’t get him out of his head.

Dean had followed Castiel’s career from that moment on. He’d read articles on the up-and-coming dancer from ballet royalty as he finished his internship at the Royal Ballet in London, then watched him come home to New York where he joined his family in the company they’d helped create. He was fast-tracked to principal, and had been poised to become a ballet legend.

And then a few years ago he’d retired suddenly and disappeared.

“Yo, Deano, you with us?”

Dean blinked, shaking himself from his exhausted reverie. He gave Gabriel a thumbs up, breathing hard. “I’m good.”

“Well, okay, then. I was just telling the guys to take it easy the rest of the day. Your quads still bothering you?” Gabriel asked. Dean shook his head, then moved his legs a little and nodded in defeat. Gabriel hummed in acknowledgement. “Thought so. Go see the trainer, ‘kay? That goes for any of you guys. I know you’ve been laying around the last few months, right?”

The other guys grumbled at Gabriel, but then also murmured their agreement. Dean reached a hand out and helped Aaron up from the floor.

“Thanks,” Aaron said, dusting himself off. “Hey, I think we’re all going to grab dinner tonight, if you want to join?”

Dean reached down to stretch out his legs, then bent back slightly to feel a stretch in his quads. “Nah, not tonight,” he said carefully. “Promised my little brother we’d hang out.”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Aaron said, working through his own cooldown. “See you on Friday, though?”

“I’ll be there.”

There was a standing Friday night get-together at Charlie’s place, involving games, food, and a few drinks (fewer when the company had morning class on Saturdays). Dean had started going at Aaron’s invitation, but kept going because Charlie was awesome. The first time he went to her apartment, she’d quoted _Star Wars_ in response to something someone else had said, and they’d bonded immediately. He also figured she’d get along really well with Jo, if they ever got to meet.

But tonight he really did have dinner plans with Sam. He’d thought that living together would mean that they saw each other more, but Dean and Sam’s schedules never seemed to line up. Sam had met some friends at Columbia (including a sort-of-not-girlfriend he refused to talk much about), and they’d been spending a lot of time together, too. But tonight was definitely guys’ night.

Dean made his way downstairs toward the trainer’s office, hoping to get in a good session before he headed home. The basement floor of the company building housed the massive costume storage facilities, the gym and trainers’ offices, and the IT department. Dean opted for the elevator instead of the stairs, popping his earbuds in to decompress to some Zeppelin (otherwise he’d end up with _Nutcracker_ music stuck in his head all night). He was jamming a little bit to _Ramble On_ when the elevator reached the bottom floor and the doors slid open. He was paying such little attention to his surroundings that he nearly knocked into someone.

“Oops, sorry!” he said, a little too loud, looking up into a pair of shocking blue eyes. Castiel mouthed something at him that Dean couldn’t hear, his hands still in front of him, braced for impact. Dean yanked an earbud from his ear. “What’d you say?”

“I said that it was my fault. Though, it isn’t surprising that you walk around running into people if you have those things in your ears.”

 “Uh, right,” he said, flustered. “Sorry.”

Castiel blinked at him, blue eyes boring into Dean’s. It was like a freakin’ tractor beam; as long as Castiel maintained eye contact, Dean couldn’t look away.

“ _Ahem_.”

Dean startled and glanced to his right. Charlie Bradbury was looking between them, eyebrow raised. “Sorry, boys,” she said, smirking. “Can I get to the elevator?”

Dean quickly moved aside, bumping into Castiel yet again. Their bare forearms brushed, and Dean yanked his arm back as though shocked. Castiel looked up at him, but Dean backed out of the situation without making eye contact again.

“Yup, I’m just gonna . . . head to the trainer’s. Like I was doing before. See ya, Charlie. Later, Castiel.”

He turned as fast as he could and hurried off down the hallway. In the absence of Castiel’s gaze, the soreness in his legs returned.

Benny, the company trainer, was a big bear of a man with a little too much beard and blue eyes that were a little too pale. He greeted Dean with a grin.

“Hey, brother, what brings you in today?” he asked, leaning on his massage table.

“That damn Russian number,” Dean said, smacking his quads. Benny nodded.

“Gabriel gets to at least one of you guys every year. Not what you’re used to out in Kansas?”

Dean shrugged. “We do okay. Not my fault every Novak is a freakin’ sadist. Whaddaya got for me today, Doc?”

Benny led him through a few stretches, watching his reactions and recommending adjustments. Afterward, he massaged some of the lactic acid out of the muscles while Dean tuned out to his playlist again. By the time they were done, his legs felt like jelly, and he was given a few new stretches to add to his routine.

“Just until Gabe stops tryin’ to make your legs fall off,” Benny said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Dean laughed.

“See ya around, Benny!”

*****

Dean pulled the pot roast out of the oven, then bumped the oven closed with his hip. It’d been a long time since he’d had time to cook, and thanks to the magic of his slow cooker, he managed to get the pot roast just done enough to finish in the oven in about half an hour. Sam was due back from class any minute, so Dean started getting plates down to put at their tiny kitchen table crammed in the corner. A Bob Seger record played softly from the nearby living room while he waited for the sound of Sam at the door.

He was almost through setting the table when his cell phone rang. He didn’t check the screen before answering. “Yeah,” he said as greeting.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Yo, Sammy! You get stuck on a train or something?”

“Um, not really. Sorry, class ran over and then a group of us ended up at a bar down the block, and then Eileen wanted to go to dinner, so . . .”

Dean leaned on the table. “So you’ve got a date,” he said simply. There was a pause.

“Not a . . . _date_ , exactly, but . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said, waving a pot holder at nothing. “I get it, go be young and impulsive. Leave us old men behind.”

“Dean, you’re thirty.”

“Twenty-nine, jackass.”

“Whatever.” Sam paused again. “You’re really okay if I go?”

Dean swallowed his disappointment. “Yeah, man, it’s fine. I’ve got shit to do, anyway. Y’know, dancer stuff.”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, listen, do you think you could get me a set of tickets for _The Nutcracker_ for the week of Christmas?”

Dean started putting away the dinner dishes as quietly as he could. “I dunno, Sam, it sells out pretty quick. This isn’t Kansas City, y’know.”

“I know, I know. I just wasn’t sure what I should get Eileen yet, and I thought maybe the ballet . . .”

“The _ballet_ , Sam? Wow, you must really like her.”

“Yeah, well, I also kinda know this guy that’s in it. He’s kinda like a big brother to me, so I thought I should probably go.”

Dean’s irritation ebbed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Now, get off the phone, bitch. Go turn on that ol’ Winchester charm.”

“Whatever. See you later, jerk.”

Dean stared at the phone screen for a while after it went blank. He fixed himself a plate and ate quietly, mulling over the strange situation he found himself in.

After living several states apart while Sam did his undergrad at Stanford, Dean thought they’d finally be able to hang out again when he got into Columbia and Dean got the coveted apprenticeship at NYBC. He knew law school at an Ivy League college would be time consuming, not to mention the fact that he had to eat, sleep, and breathe ballet if he even wanted a shot at a permanent place in the company next season, but they freakin’ _lived_ together. They hardly ever saw each other, never mind actually getting to sit down and have an actual conversation.

He finished his dinner, scraped the leftover bits into the trash, cleaned the dishes, then, before he could change his mind, he grabbed his dance bag, threw on his coat, and headed out the door.

The studios were quiet after eight at night. The building was open, a few people still in their offices, still rehearsing. The faint sound of a piano playing from down the hallway serenaded Dean as he stole into one of the smaller studios. He changed out of his street clothes and tucked his feet into his dance shoes before going to hook his phone up to the dock on the stereo. He checked over his shoulder again, making sure he was completely alone, before pulling up a song he hadn’t been able to keep out of his head since the moment he came face-to-face with Castiel Novak.

The opening phrases of electronically modified music started pulsing rhythmically through the room, and the choreography flowed from Dean like welcoming an old friend. He hadn’t done these steps in a long time, maybe just a few on his own in his apartment while cleaning or cooking, his body slipping into it from muscle memory. He hadn’t done this in a studio in front of anyone, though, not even in Kansas City. He’d been too embarrassed.

Now, though, he let go, the original video playing through his head as he lost himself in the music, in the steps, modifying them a little when he used up too much floor and almost crashed into the barre. Castiel had had more room in the video.

The craze over Sergei Polunin’s “Take Me to Church” video had long died down before Castiel’s video came out, but Dean had been captivated. After following Castiel’s career into abrupt retirement, he’d leapt at the chance to watch him dance again. It had been gut wrenching, like seeing Castiel’s soul on camera. Dean hadn’t hesitated before teaching himself the choreography, listening to the music over and over, dancing by himself in his apartment and never being able to do it full out.

It felt good to finally be able to indulge himself, spinning through the final _pirouettes_ before landing on the floor, reaching out toward the mirror. He was a bit rusty, but he’d remembered it all. The song changed, turning to something slower and sultrier. He didn’t move right away, letting the feeling of the dance settle in him.

“I didn’t expect anyone would bother to learn it.”

Dean startled at the deep voice and leapt to his feet, flushing in embarrassment. Castiel was leaning against the open studio door, arms crossed, a strange look on his face. _Shit_. Dean rubbed the back of his neck in the silence that stretched on between them.

“Sorry,” he finally spat out. Castiel tilted his head.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, not moving from his spot in the doorway. The music was still playing softly in the background, and Dean wanted to go turn it off but he couldn’t seem to make himself move.

“I stole your dance,” Dean said lamely.

“It’s just choreography,” Castiel replied, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Not, uh. Not to me.”

Castiel’s eyes shot up to meet Dean’s at that. He took a few steps into the studio. Dean’s heart raced faster with each step. He was regarding Dean carefully, approaching slowly. Dean stared at the floor in front of Castiel’s feet.

“You have a natural hindrance,” Castiel said finally. Dean was immediately puzzled. “Your bowlegs,” Castiel clarified. Dean was so thrown off he couldn’t argue. “But despite that, you are an excellent dancer, Dean.”

Dean’s face turned bright red, and his heart hammered in his ears. “Uh, I’m okay, I guess.”

“No,” Castiel said firmly. “You are good enough to be here. That was a very nice interpretation of the piece. I’d like to help with one thing, though, if you don’t mind?”

“You want to help me?”

“Yes. _Developpé_ in second, please.”

Castiel’s commanding tone sent shivers down Dean’s spine, but he managed to place his feet into first position and lift his leg through _passé_ and up into a second position _arabesque_. He swallowed against a sudden tackiness in his mouth as Castiel moved behind him, firmly gripped his calf and placed a steadying hand on his lower back. He hoped, irrationally, that he hadn’t sweated through his shirt.

“You have to cheat a bit,” Castiel said, turning Dean’s leg even further out from the hip. “Develop your turnout just a little further, and you can get even more out of your extension.”

He gently rotated Dean’s leg, leading Dean to lean into the hand at his back, before Castiel carefully guided Dean’s leg back and into a rear _arabesque_.

“Then, the same here,” Castiel said quietly, leaning into Dean’s body slightly. He shifted the hand from Dean’s lower back to his hip, still using the other hand on Dean’s calf to ever-so-slightly deepen his turnout. “Of course you have a strong turnout, and lovely lines,” Castiel continued, now pressed even closer to Dean, his voice a low rumble. “But just a tiny adjustment can clean up your extensions and maximize your potential.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to control his breathing. Castiel pressed his leg further up gently before letting go and allowing Dean to control the descent. It took a moment before Dean’s muscles caught up, and his leg fell several inches on its own before he regained control. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he heard a soft chuckle from Castiel.

Feet closed in first, Dean realized that somewhere along the way he’d closed his eyes, losing himself in the warmth of Castiel’s hand on his hip. He licked his lips and opened them slowly, only to be greeted by his own reflection.

They’d been standing in front of the mirror. Oh, god. His body was thrumming with Castiel’s warm, teasing touch, and there, Castiel was staring at him in the reflection. His gaze was dark, almost hungry. A shiver of arousal passed over him.

“I—” Dean’s voice came out in a rasp, so he cleared his throat. “I, uh . . .”

Dean’s voice seemed to break some sort of spell over Castiel, who immediately jerked his hands back from Dean and stepped away.

“My apologies,” Castiel said, backing up quickly. “I shouldn’t have—that was inappropriate. I don’t know what came over me.”

Dean watched him in the mirror. If he didn’t turn around, maybe this was all just in his head. “It’s okay,” he said, but Castiel shook his head.

“No, I . . . forgive me, I’ll just . . .”

And with that, he turned and fucking _fled_.

Dean stood alone in the center of the studio for a while longer. Gradually, he started to hear the music playing in the background again. He rubbed his face hard, trying to scrub away the feeling of shame that threatened to creep in.

How stupid could he have been? It was an awful idea to come here, and then Castiel had caught him? He’d probably been disgusted by what he saw in the mirror, in Dean. Hell, he was probably heading straight to his mother to demand that Dean be removed from the company.

All of the blood drained from his face at the thought. He rushed through packing up his bag, as though escaping the building could erase what happened. There were cameras in the hallways, too, so it wasn’t as though he could deny having been there.

Maybe Castiel would ignore it. At this point, it was the best that Dean could hope for. He disconnected his phone and threw it into his bag, tossing on his coat before rushing from the building.

Sam still wasn’t home by the time Dean got there, leftovers untouched in the fridge, which meant that Dean could hide in his room and avoid curious questions.

At least Dean wouldn’t have to see Castiel in rehearsal for a few days. The ghost of his touch haunted Dean as he drifted on the edges of sleep, eventually fading into a dream of warm hands and crackling electricity.

 

_Castiel_

Castiel spent the next few weeks convinced that he would be called into Adler’s office and given, at the least, a formal disciplinary review for what happened between him and Dean in the studio that night. He also spent the time going the other direction to avoid passing Dean in the hallways. He didn’t see him at rehearsals, except for during the large company classes, but those were easy to put distance between them due to the crowd setting.

In addition to the stress caused by his actions, he was also feeling the pressure as his first performance since coming out of retirement approached. He had been cast as the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier in _The Nutcracker_ , a role he’d danced before, but he couldn’t help but feel his age as he tired more easily throughout.

“You’re just out of practice,” Anna said during one of their after-hours rehearsals. He’d been coming from one the night that he found Dean.

He’d been startled, at first, to hear the music he knew so well coming from a supposedly empty studio, but then he’d looked in and it had been _Dean_ , dancing his own choreography with such abandon that he stopped and stared. The original was a poor man’s facsimile of other viral videos of greater dancers, but it had meant something to him when he had been asked to return to dance after two years of retirement.

It had been a labor of love, and clearly Dean felt that. It made him feel connected to Dean in an inexplicable way.

Now, though, he was lifting Anna over and over in preparation for his season debut in the holiday’s most tired tradition.

“Really, Cas, you’re going to be fine,” Anna said when he managed to set her down _en pointe_ without crushing her toes. He wished she would be dancing with him this year, but instead it was going to be Meg Masters, whose offstage personality couldn’t be less sugary if she tried. She was an excellent dancer, though, and Gabriel always claimed she and Castiel had intense chemistry, which was surprising since Castiel wanted nothing to do with her generally.

“Castiel, focus!” Anna snapped, and he realized that he’d been going through the motions without paying attention and missed her hand for the next lift.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, hastily reaching for her, but Anna stopped him.

“I think we’re done for tonight.”

“No, no, I can keep going.” Anna put her hands on her hips.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said instead. Castiel narrowed his eyes at her, but she was not deterred. “It’s Winchester, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” Castiel spluttered. Anna grinned.

“I didn’t, until you reacted like that.”

“Sometimes you’re too much like Gabriel.”

“In this case, I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sank down to the floor and into an easy center split stretch. “Come on, pull up some floor and tell me what’s going on.”

Castiel sat and joined her in stretching, but didn’t speak at first. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he said finally. Anna frowned.

“Why?”

Castiel scowled and avoided her gaze, but he knew she would wait him out if he didn’t volunteer the information. “I thought, perhaps, that you and Dean might . . .”

Anna laughed. “Me and Dean? Please, Castiel, you’ve seen us together. We’re friends. I have no interest in dating another dancer.”

“I know, but I just . . . you two . . .” He paused to gather his thoughts. “You have excellent chemistry.”

“Well, I suppose, but so do you and Meg, and we both know what a disaster that would be! Besides, he’s too . . . well, I don’t know, but trust me when I say that I am _not_ interested.”

Castiel folded forward, head in his hands. “Anna, I don’t know what to _do_. I can’t . . . he’s . . . Anna.”

She patted his head sympathetically. “Oh, my poor, tortured brother. Well, if you can’t figure it out, I’m not going to do it for you.”

“I’ve been voted onto the board, Anna. Company contracts explicitly prohibit fraternization between the board and the dancers. If I did anything . . . anything _more_ , I mean—”

“Wait, what do you mean _more_?!” Anna screeched. Castiel glanced around, shushing her.

“Please, don’t say anything. I shouldn’t . . . I took certain liberties that I shouldn’t have and I apologized, but I’m afraid that he . . . It’s difficult to be around him.”

Anna pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything else on the topic. He was grateful for that, at least.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go through that last movement one more time, but if you drop me I swear to god I’m going to fill up your Queen playlist with EDM again.”

*****

To be entirely fair, the opening performance didn’t go off completely without a hitch, but Anna was mostly right: he was fine, and he didn’t drop Meg, so he counted his first performance back with the company as a win.

Afterward, Castiel stood in the dressing room trying to tame his still-shower-damp hair and straighten his tie at the same time. He’d let Anna pick out his suit, which was a deep charcoal gray with a hunter green tie (never mind that the color reminded him of a certain someone’s eyes). He had to admit he looked good; the last few months of constant dancing and conditioning workouts meant that his suit accentuated his trim figure. He hadn’t thought that he would still be dancing at thirty-seven, and sometimes he’d felt his age, but nothing felt like performing in front of a live audience again.

The party was in full swing by the time Castiel made it to the brightly lit, gilded lobby, but he liked that he could skirt around the edges and avoid the bulk of the attention. That dubious honor was given to a knot of new dancers in the middle of the room, at the center of which was, of course, Dean. Castiel knew that staring from a distance like this made him creepy, but Dean was _radiant_. He basked in the attention, flushed with alcohol and excitement and the spotlight. Castiel remembered that blush creeping up Dean’s cheeks in his reflection while his skin felt hot through his clothes just weeks ago in that empty rehearsal studio . . .

Castiel stamped down hard on those thoughts. He’d been working hard to quench those memories, and it had been working so far. Except for a few moments when Anna insisted on trying to coax the story out of him, Castiel partitioned off thoughts of that night and not gone looking. He’d gotten very good at ignoring what he wanted over the last few months.

“Castiel!”

The enthusiastic cry brought him from his spiraling thoughts and back into the present, and he just managed to put on a pleasant smile for the older woman who approached him with two wine glasses in hand.

“Ms. Baker,” he said, accepting the glass from her and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She pooh-poohed him.

“Call me Mildred, darlin’,” she said. “After all, you’re going to be on the board soon.”

Castiel liked Mildred Baker. She was one of the Company’s biggest donors (she had an entire plaque to herself in the ornate lobby), and she was always kind to the dancers. He had a short exchange of pleasantries with her before she congratulated him on his performance and moved on. He avoided most other contact, trying to seek out Anna or Gabriel while drinking a second glass of wine pressed into his hand by one of the other dancers. Somewhere to his left, he thought he heard Dean’s familiar laugh and his heart jumped into his throat.

His cheeks were warm, and he found himself drifting closer to the center of the party. He lost track of the number of glasses pressed into his hand by enthusiastic company members and congratulatory board members and sponsors.

The lobby was crowded, and hot, and the cold air drifting through the open balcony doors beckoned him. He dropped his empty glass off on a passing tray and moved toward the fresh air.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Castiel, back from the dead.”

Cold dropped into the pit of Castiel’s stomach at the sound of the accented baritone voice behind him. “Hello, Crowley,” he said, turning to face him.

Crowley was another sponsor who had long ago managed to buy his way onto the board. By this time next year, Castiel would be his peer. Crowley had always been interested in Castiel’s career, something Castiel was largely able to ignore. Now that they would both be on the board, however . . .

“Rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” Castiel said. Crowley smirked.

“Yes, I can see that. Your performance was sub-par, however. I know you’re capable of much more.”

“Thank you. Get to the point.”

Crowley actually smiled. “How do you know this isn’t it?” Castiel glared at him.

“Because you always want _something_.”

Castiel regretted his phrasing immediately, because Crowley leaned forward, steady on his feet while Castiel swayed. He was entirely too close for polite company, but Castiel refused to back down. Crowley was mere inches away when he whispered, “You should be very careful, Castiel. Consider who to trust very carefully. I can’t say more, but just know . . . things are not all what they seem.”

With that, Crowley pulled back, gave Castiel a long glance, then moved away into the crowd. Castiel watched him go, his tipsy brain struggling to digest the information, when he heard a much more welcome voice at his elbow.

“What’s with that dude?” Dean asked. Castiel’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Crowley. He’s an investor.” His words must have been less clear than he’d intended, because Dean shot him a sidelong glance.

“We should probably get you some air,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s elbow and pressing a hand into the small of his back, much the same as Castiel had done to Dean weeks ago. Dean carefully led him out onto a small veranda. Castiel quenched a small noise of protest when Dean removed his hand from Castiel’s back, but Dean stayed close enough that their arms touched.

Dean was wearing a suit, like Castiel, but his was dark blue and cut very slim. It accentuated Dean’s figure in all of the right ways, and Castiel had to stop himself from staring at Dean’s well-formed shoulders. It helped that they were standing side-by-side, and now that he’d stopped to take note, Castiel realized he was having a hard time focusing at all.

“You look very handsome tonight, Dean,” he said, which made Dean blush, which Castiel liked a lot.

“Uh, thanks,” Dean replied, glancing over at Castiel. “You, too, Castiel.”

“Mmm,” Castiel said eloquently. The cool air felt good on his overheated skin, which was partially from the wine but also because Dean was so close. There were heavy gray clouds overhead, closing them in like a blanket. The noise of the city was all around them, while the glow of the party cast their shadows long across the lawn in front of the theatre.

“I thought your performance tonight was awesome, by the way,” Dean continued after a moment. Castiel scoffed. “I mean it! You were great.”

“No,” Castiel said, then thought better of it. “I mean, thank you.” Dean frowned at him.

“You’re pretty hard on yourself, huh?” Castiel cast him a glare. “Okay, okay, you’re harder on yourself than most of us.”

“I’m old.”

“Dude, you’re what, thirty-five?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“’S’not old. You’re not even middle-aged. Hell, I’m twenty-nine.”

Castiel shook his head. “I was retired. I got winded tonight.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“I’m out of shape.”

“You look pretty good to me.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped to Dean’s face, who blushed even harder and looked away. Castiel frowned deeply.

“I know you saw my video,” he said quietly. Dean still didn’t look at him, instead staring out at the city lights. “I’m not very . . . open about why I did it.”

“Why you did the video?”

“Why I retired.” Castiel took a deep breath, cold air sharp in his lungs. It steadied him. “When I was young, I didn’t handle stardom well. I misspent my youth; it was difficult to dance and dabble in the kind of things I did, but I have never been anything if not persistent.” He laughed bitterly. “It started with a few parties here and there, the kind of money that gets you whatever you want, including drugs and sex with anyone who turns your head for a night. I drank and smoked and fucked around so much that my mother felt she had to intervene.”

He felt Dean tense beside him, but plowed on. “She sent me to rehab, made sure I spent all of my spare time in studios, and eventually I was dancing better than I ever had in my life. I was promoted to principal within three years. But I was tired. I was old at the age of thirty-two. So, I decided to retire. It took two more years to build up the courage to walk away, but when I did I never felt better. I danced _Firebird_ and I took my final bow. I spent a whole year on the road, never once tempted to . . . indulge.”

Castiel felt the effects of the alcohol coursing through him and felt a little ashamed. “This place makes me lose control,” he said quietly. “I never wanted to come back.”

“And now you’re on the board,” Dean said astutely, and Castiel smiled wryly.

“Duty calls,” he said.

“Yeah, I know all about fuckin’ duty,” Dean said bitterly. “Duty was mopping up my dad’s puke for years, watching my mom cry at the kitchen table over bills we couldn’t pay. Dance was all I ever had, y’know? But, uh . . .” Dean sucked in a long breath before letting it out in a rush. “I get it.”

Castiel’s core warmed with affection. He placed his hand on Dean’s arm, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Dean,” he said. Dean’s eyes were bright, snow flakes starting to stick in his hair, cheeks flushed pink and lips red and shiny where he had just licked them. Castiel licked his own in response, staring a little too long at the plush lower lip that would fit perfectly between his teeth.

He’d gravitated toward Dean without noticing, but Dean had leaned in, too, so it didn’t seem too far to want to press their lips together, see what they felt like against his own.

A loud laugh from somewhere nearby made Castiel jump, startling Dean from the moment, too. Castiel saw doubt shadow Dean’s eyes, so he leaned back and looked away. He felt Dean’s eyes for a long moment afterward before he said, “I’m, uh, having some family in for Christmas, and I dunno if you have plans, but, um . . .”

“My mother hosts the board for their annual party the day after Christmas as a fundraiser for the new year,” Castiel said dully. “We haven’t celebrated Christmas since I was a boy.”

“You should come,” Dean said quickly. “Might be cool, I mean.”

The cold and the almost-kiss had sobered Castiel considerably. Enough that he could smile ruefully at Dean and say, “Perhaps another time.”

He wouldn’t want to intrude on Dean’s time with his family. Besides, Castiel had standing plans to watch awful Christmas Hallmark movies with Anna and Gabriel and eat their weight in chocolate candy.

A flicker of something that might’ve been hurt flashed in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, sure.” The moment stretched between them. Finally, Dean drifted away with a vague, “Well, uh, see you at work tomorrow, Cas.”

It didn’t occur to Castiel until later that it had been the first time Dean called him “Cas.”

*****

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear with Castiel nursing a large mug of coffee. The closing performance of _The Nutcracker_ had been the night before, so that meant the usual closing shenanigans (this time the cast had closed out a late-night diner near the theatre—no alcohol involved). Castiel woke up exhausted. He turned on the Hallmark channel to start his marathon and wait for Anna and Gabriel, who were often late risers on a day off. He’d just settled in to watch some movie about a girl who travelled to a small town and ended up meeting the love of her life (a plot so overused that Castiel wondered if he might have just missed out when he was travelling the country) when his phone buzzed beside him. He opened it, thinking it might be one of his siblings.

Dean, 9:02am>>>> _Merry Christmas_

Castiel couldn’t help but smile down at his phone. He swiped open the app and typed out “Merry Christmas” before thinking better and simply sending a Santa Claus emoji. It wasn’t another five minutes before his phone buzzed again.

Dean, 9:06>>>> _hope ur not alone_

Castiel, 9:07>>>> _I have Hallmark to keep me company._

Dean texted back the poop emoji, and the puking emoji. Castiel laughed, then sobered when the next text came through.

Dean, 9:10>>>> _doesnt count_

_u should come over_

_we have pie_

Castiel turned his phone in his hands for a long time, deciding what to say. Finally he just settled on: “thank you” and “have a good time with your family” before turning back to the terrible movie.

Two hours (or a movie and a half) later a sharp knock on the door pulled Castiel from his funk. He shuffled to the door, expecting his siblings, but when he pulled it open the wrong redhead was grinning up at him.

“Hey!” Charlie said. “Get dressed, you’re coming with me!”

He wasn’t sure how it happened, but after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Castiel ended up in Charlie’s Gremlin fighting traffic to end up at the apartment Dean shared with his brother. Apparently, their mother, stepfather Bobby, and good family friends Ellen and Jo, as well as their neighbors the Trans, were already there. Castiel dragged his feet a little on the way up the stairs, but Charlie kept up a long stream of babble and wouldn’t let him fall behind. They reached the door and Charlie knocked cheerfully.

The door swung open and the smell of delicious holiday food wafted into the hallway from behind an incredibly tall young man with shaggy hair and a big grin.

“Hey, Charlie! You got him!”

“Please, Sam, I’m wounded that you ever doubted me,” Charlie said, hugging the man briefly before edging into the room. Castiel lingered as he was scrutinized next.

“Castiel, right?” Castiel nodded. “Nice to meet ya! I’m Sam, Dean’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel said, shaking Sam’s hand. He stumbled a little as he was pulled into a big bear hug, hugging back a little awkwardly.

He was welcomed into a warm space, small but well-kept, with the entire living room taken up by a series of folding tables and chairs. A long tablecloth had been spread across it, places already set with real dishes and silverware. An older man was sitting and talking with a few women at the table, though there wasn’t any food yet. Sam introduced Castiel to them, and Bobby, Mary, Ellen, and Jo all smiled at him and seemed genuinely happy to meet him.

“Hey, is that Cas?” Dean’s voice called from within an alcove to the right.

“Yup! Charlie actually got him to come!” Castiel blushed at Sam’s response, but wandered toward the tiny kitchen.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Castiel offered. Dean had a giant oven mitt on each hand, and a red apron string was knotted in a bow behind his back. He was holding a huge turkey in an enormous roasting pan (Castiel wasn’t sure how Dean had fit it in the definitely apartment-sized oven) with both hands and attempting to close the oven door with his hip. Castiel rushed over without waiting for an answer and pushed the door closed.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, depositing the heavy pan on the top of the stove. There were various steaming pots and pans and bowls spread all over the minute counter space. Dean pulled his oven mitts off and looked around for somewhere to put them before tossing them into the sink.

Castiel had spent Christmas in his mother’s mansion served by an entire staff, catered by the best restaurants and private chefs, but never in his life had he smelled anything as delicious as this.

“Did you make all this?” Castiel asked in awe. Dean blushed, brushing his hands off on the apron that, when he turned, Castiel could see read, “Santa’s Little Helper.” Castiel had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from grinning at the sight. Sweat beaded on Dean’s forehead, and Castiel tracked the dish towel as Dean mopped it off before tucking the towel back into the apron.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, moving to take stock of the dishes on the counters. “I mean, Mom and Ellen woulda helped, and back home Bobby usually fries the turkey, but with this tiny-ass kitchen there really isn’t any room for more than one cook, y’know.”

He might have denied it, but the color on Dean’s cheeks darkened as he talked about being the one to cook the meal.

“You boys gonna stand there and yap all day, or are we gonna eat at some point?” Bobby yelled from the living room.

“Hold on, old man, it’s comin’. Wouldn’t want you to tire yourself out tryin’ to help or nothin’!” Dean called back. Castiel blanched at that, but then there was a chorus of laughter from the main space, and Dean wiggled his eyebrows at Castiel, so he relaxed.

With Castiel’s help (and an extra pair of oven mitts), the two moved the dishes into the living room. The girls eventually got up to help, and before long they were all settled at the motley collection of tables and dishes and cutlery, passing food around the table.

Dinner went surprisingly well. Castiel had expected to keep to himself and just listen, but he was sitting next to Charlie and across from Jo, so there was no way he was going to get away with not answering questions.

Jo was energetic and blunt, and she and Charlie clearly got on like a house on fire. Ellen was just as straightforward, a little rougher around the edges, but when Castiel said that his family didn’t gather for things like this, she passed him an extra portion of mashed potatoes.

Bobby and Mary made him nervous, and he refused to investigate why. They were both polite and asked him about dancing, his hobbies, why he’d come out of retirement. He couldn’t help but flick his eyes over to Dean to see if he was listening, and more than once they made inadvertent eye contact. Every time, Dean blushed before looking away.

Otherwise, Dean was clearly in his element. He laughed loudly and often, ate two servings of everything, then came back from the kitchen later with two slices of all three kinds of pie.

Castiel had never had a Christmas this full of family.

Mary, Bobby, Ellen, and Jo were staying in a hotel nearby, so after the leftovers were put away and the table and chairs stored, they said their good-byes with promises of sightseeing in the morning after they’d all slept off their food coma. Before she left, Mary caught Castiel by surprise by pulling him into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” Mary said inexplicably, leaving Castiel confused as she left. Dean cleared his throat, and Castiel turned to look at him. He was blushing pink under his freckles, but he nodded his head toward the kitchen, indicating that Castiel should follow him. The kitchen was still warm from the cooking and baking marathon. Dean had his back to Castiel, busy with rinsing the dishes. Dean and Sam had a dishwasher, so Castiel stepped up next to Dean and started loading the rinsed dishes into it.

“Thanks,” Dean said quietly. They worked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and something thick grew between them. By the time they were finished, Castiel shifted uncomfortably under the weight of it, hyper-aware of every slight touch they shared. Dean tossed Castiel a dish towel to dry his hands, turning to lean against the sink and drying off his own. Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes, but Castiel couldn’t help staring.

Dean was beautiful, kind, and passionate, and made Castiel’s heart race. Just standing there, he longed to reach out, to tuck himself up against Dean’s chest and curl into him. He ached to be embraced by him.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Castiel said, voice rougher than usual. Dean merely shrugged.

“No problem. You, uh.” He cleared his throat. “You kinda fit in, anyway.”

Dean’s cheeks flamed, still finding the dish towel very interesting. Castiel stepped forward, just a bit. “That makes me very happy,” he said softly. Dean looked up at him sharply, green eyes intense.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze flicked to Castiel’s lips, just briefly, and a shiver ran through him. “Dean . . .”

That seemed to break Dean out of whatever trance he was in, and he straightened up, tossing the towel aside. “Anyway, merry Christmas, Cas,” he said, walking past him into the living room.

Castiel rubbed his face roughly. Eventually, he went home to his empty apartment to several texts from his siblings, but he didn’t want to have to go over the day with them, so he tucked himself in early and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's Nutcracker role: [Russian dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgyliXHF9j8)


	3. Act III: Showcase Again

_Dean_

The spring half of the season had started, which meant that Dean was back to rehearsing Castiel’s piece for the more fundraiser-focused spring showcase, and gearing up for rehearsals of _Giselle_ , which would be the final show of the season.

The more he thought about the close of the season, the more nervous he got. He’d been doing well, garnering attention from influential donors and even the praise of tyrannical ballet mistress Abaddon. His final performance would be considered a test, he was sure, since he’d been cast in a role usually reserved for a principal. He’d be dancing the role of Hilarion, one of Giselle’s suitors and the second-largest male role in the ballet.

And, of course, Castiel had been cast as Albrecht.

It was fitting for his final performance, the role that had brought him such attention so early in his career, but any time spent around Castiel turned Dean’s stomach into knots. Ever since Christmas, they’d been avoiding each other. Whatever had happened in Dean’s kitchen had shifted something, and Dean had been sure that Castiel felt it, too. But Castiel was going to ignore it, so Dean would, too.

Not that he could ignore the way his body became electric whenever they were close to each other. They’d been working especially close since Anna had accepted a guest artist position at the Australian National Ballet for the spring and wouldn’t be able to dance with Dean in the showcase since she’d be in _Cinderella_ there at the time. Castiel wouldn’t let him try the _pas de deux_ section with anyone else, so Dean had been left attempting to capture whatever magic there’d been on his own.

One night, after a particularly long rehearsal, Dean had been packed up and heading home after a shower in the locker room, when he heard music drifting from the large company studio. It had been empty when he and Cas had called it quits for the night, so Dean went to investigate.

Cas was alone in the enormous room, dancing through part of the second act of _Giselle_. Dean’s heart leapt into his throat. Suddenly, he was a kid again, watching Cas dance for the first time.

Except it looked like Cas was struggling. He ran through a section, then stopped, re-set, and then tried again. Cas’s dancing was methodical, precise, and there was the proof; each repetition was just subtly adjusted, with a deeper _plié_ here, a further rotated turnout there. The power in Cas’s thick thighs as he leapt across the floor made Dean shift uncomfortably in the doorway.

Suddenly, he realized that he was being a grade-A creep, and the next time Cas stopped the music he turned to go. He probably wouldn’t have even been noticed, except his bag slipped from his shoulder and crashed into the door frame.

“Dean?”

Dean’s shoulders tensed and for half a second he considered not turning around. He turned, trying to play it off.

“Hey, Cas, thought that was you.”

Cas squinted at him. “Were you watching me?”

Dean opened his mouth to deny it, then saw the tiny blush inching its way up Cas’s neck and onto his cheeks. He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Heard the music and just kinda . . .”

A long minute stretched out in silence between them, Dean avoiding looking directly at Cas before:

“With Anna in Australia, I find myself without someone whom I trust to give competent feedback.”

Dean blinked. “What about Gabriel?”

Cas scoffed. “Gabriel is seldom helpful, and always infuriating. Besides, I . . . The fewer people know of my . . . inadequacies, the better.”

“I don’t find you inadequate.”

Cas tilted his head, and then it was Dean’s turn to blush. “I mean, your dancing. It’s, uh, it’s good. Better, even.”

Again, Cas scoffed and rolled his eyes. “If you’re only going to compliment me, then I’d rather you didn’t waste my time,” he said, turning back toward the center of the room.

Dean should’ve turned around, headed home, but instead he moved further into the studio. “Wait, hey . . .” Cas stopped. “I can help. If you want.”

Cas’s whole body was tense, and he was staring directly at the floor, but he said, “I would appreciate that.”

And so, Dean had become Cas’s late-night coach. It had taken almost two weeks for Dean to be able to give the kind of critique Cas was looking for (because, hey, Dean thought Cas was pretty much perfect). Most recently, Cas had been working the _entrechat six_ section during what turned out to be the warmest night of the year so far. Even Dean was drenched in sweat in the stifling studio, and he was just sitting in front of the mirror.

“Dude, I don’t know what you want me to say. They look damn perfect to me.”

Cas growled and ran his hands through his wet hair. “If you refuse to give me honest feedback, this isn’t going to work.”

“Yeah, I know! You only told me that, like, fifty times.”

“Then maybe it’s going to take fifty-one for you to believe me.”

“I’ll give you feedback, Cas, but I’m not gonna lie to you. Move on! This section is good.”

Cas paced the floor, trying to fan himself with his shirt, which was stuck to him with sweat.

“Just take it off if it’s bothering you,” Dean said without thinking. Cas glared at him, then whipped the wet garment over his head and tossed it aside, and Dean nearly swallowed his tongue.

As if Dean needed more images of Cas to taunt him when he was vulnerable. Dean hadn’t gotten laid since he left Lawrence, which was a long-ass time, and also what he was going to blame his current predicament on.

In the shower later that night, Dean started absentmindedly stroking himself as he let the warm water flow over him. The image of Cas, shirtless and glistening, had been stuck in his head on repeat the whole evening. His mind wandered over Cas’s thick arms, his strong shoulders, and that collar bone . . . throwing caution to the winds, Dean let himself imagine Cas there with him, rivulets of water trailing down his neck, over his clavicle, and down his pecs. Warmth spread through Dean that didn’t have anything to do with the water as he grew harder in his hand. He added a little bit of conditioner to his palm to help slick the way, then leaned his head back and sighed at the smoother slide of his fist over his cock.

Nobody would know if Dean imagined Cas was there. In Dean’s head, Cas might drop to his knees, plush pink lips mouthing over his length before pressing gentle kisses to the tip. Dean shuddered at the thought of Cas’s mouth on him, hot and wet, suckling just a little on the head before going back to teasing him. The water might pool in his collar bones, dripping down over his taught rosy nipples, his own cock hard between his amazing thighs.

Dean started stroking in earnest, now, remembering the way Cas’s hands had felt on his hips the last time they’d worked together at the barre, trying to develop Dean’s turnout. He had huge hands, nimble fingers and broad palms that fit over Dean’s entire hipbone. He braced himself against the cold shower wall with one hand, imagining those hands gripping his ass, pulling him closer as he slid slowly all the way into Cas’s throat. He had no idea if Cas could deepthroat, but honestly he was probably excellent at it, like everything else he tried.

“Cas . . .” Dean moaned, trying to stay quiet for the paper-thin walls. He shuddered, thinking about Cas on his knees, Dean’s cock sliding in and out of his perfect lips, before he gasped and pulled back to splatter those perfect collar bones with his come. Some might pool in the dips like the water had, and Dean would join Cas on his knees to lick it clean.

Dean stroked himself through the aftershocks, then hastily washed away any evidence. He’d only jacked off thinking about Cas a handful of times, but he felt guilty about it after so he tried to avoid it. It only made rehearsals incredibly awkward.

The next day, Dean warmed up and worked his way through an incredibly patient run-through, blushing every time Cas so much as glanced his way. Charlie was there, too, now, recording every run-through to hand off to Cas for analysis. Dean wished he knew how to fix what Cas wanted fixed.

“It isn’t you,” Cas sighed for the fifth time. “It just isn’t the same without Anna.”

They worked through it so many times that eventually Cas sent everyone else home, including Charlie, though she left the camera. Cas had Dean work through the final section again and again, until finally Dean had to call stop.

“I’m exhausted,” he gasped, resting his hands on his knees. Cas almost came out of a trance at that point, shoulders loosening as he walked over to Dean.

“I apologize,” he said, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean flinched away, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of hurt in Cas’s eyes, but it was gone quickly. “Why don’t you stretch to cool down? I have enough footage to try to work on it on my own.”

Dean nodded, moving to the barre to stretch out his legs and hips. The final leap and turn combination was killer on his strong leg, leading to hip tightness if he wasn’t careful. He was getting a little lost in the routine of it when a warm hand on his knee caught him off guard. He flinched again, but didn’t pull away as Cas helped adjust his position. His touch was clinical, but the warmth of his hand burned through Dean’s tights. Dean’s mouth went dry, thoughts turning to his morning shower and sending a shiver of arousal through him. Castiel moved away, and Dean had no idea what possessed him, but he found himself saying, “I could use some help working through my hip.” His voice was rough; he couldn’t even dare to glance at the mirror to see Cas’s reaction. A long moment passed before Cas’s hands went ever-so-gently to Dean’s calf and hip.

They didn’t say anything, Dean’s hand growing sweaty on the barre, as Castiel helped lift and rotate his leg from a front _arabesque_ through second and finally behind him. Cas had to press himself close to Dean’s back as he was boxed in against the barre by Dean’s leg. They rolled through this several times, Cas moving closer and closer, holding him in position for an extended moment before letting Dean naturally close his feet to first position. Dean did a quick _soutenu_ to turn around, putting him inches from Cas’s face. Cas was flushed, eyes glassy, and he stared at Dean’s lips for a very long moment.

“Other leg?” Cas murmured, eyes on Dean’s mouth. Dean shivered, nodded.

Cas moved behind him again, only this time, Cas let his hands trail a little more slowly down Dean’s calf. Dean leaned into the touches, an encouraging sound leaving his throat.

They moved through the routine again, but by the time they finished Cas was pressed up against him, flush against his back, hard evidence of his arousal pressing into the meat of Dean’s ass. When Cas let his leg go, Dean was gripped with a moment of daring, bending forward into a _port de bras_ , pressing his ass back into Cas’s hips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Dean smirked a little as he came back up, performing another _soutenu_ that left him practically breathing the same air as Cas. They were frozen for a moment; Dean nearly lost his nerve before, finally, Cas surged forward and mashed their lips together.

It was artless, too much teeth, but Dean moaned into the kiss, his hands automatically flying up to tangle in Cas’s hair. Their lips slid slick against each other’s and Dean reveled in the taste. Cas’s hands were on Dean’s hips, holding but not guiding, while Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’s shoulders, pulling him in tight.

Cas kissed like it had been years since he’d last done this, and maybe it had. He opened up beautifully under Dean’s insistence, their open mouths slotting together, hungry and wet in the best way. Dean teased his tongue into Cas’s mouth, and it was Cas’s turn to moan and pull them even tighter together. They were making out like teenagers, Dean hardening against Cas’s hip. Cas pressed them together, sliding his hands to the small of Dean’s back and grinding a little, making Dean gasp out of the kiss.

“Cas . . .” he whispered, then Cas was suddenly pressing him back against the barre, lining up their hips and initiating a slow, dirty grind. Dean groaned, fingers still tangled in Cas’s hair as Cas left a trail of hot kisses down Dean’s neck.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Dean breathed as Cas sucked lightly on the sensitive place beneath his ear. Dean hitched a leg up over Cas’s hip to give himself more leverage. “ _Cas_ ,” he moaned, then suddenly Cas froze, hands planted firmly on his ass.

“Dean,” Cas said, then suddenly he jumped away from Dean, pulling his hands back as though he’d been burned. Dean leaned back hard against the barre, holding himself up as he blinked the world back into focus. Cas was standing a few feet from him, hands splayed in the middle of the air, chest heaving as he stared at Dean.

“Shit.”

Panic welled up as reality set in. Dean pushed away from the barre hard, knocking into Cas’s shoulder as he hurried to get his bag.

“Dean, wait,” Cas said, but Dean didn’t listen. The blood was rushing from his extremities and into his brain, causing a roaring sound in his ears. “Dean, we should talk—”

“Nothing to talk about, man,” Dean said, throwing on a sweater over his t-shirt and feeling thankful that it was long enough to cover what was left of his arousal. “It was a mistake, let’s just forget about it and move on.”

Castiel froze. “A mistake,” he repeated.

“Yup. Stupid mistake. I promise I won’t say anything to the board.”

If possible, Castiel’s face drained of even more color. “The board,” he repeated, clearly panicked. Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. Obviously Castiel was slowly catching up. He tried to tamp down on his own panic as he looked anywhere but at Castiel.

“Listen, I’d be really grateful if you didn’t mention this, either,” he said. “We could both be in trouble, you know?”

Castiel was quiet for a long moment before he nodded. “Of course,” he said, and a little of the tension drained from Dean. “I understand.”

The silence between them was awkward, but for the best. Dean slammed the door on whatever ache was starting to build in his heart, before giving Castiel an awkward salute and heading out through the doors.

*****

Despite their . . . indiscretion, Dean managed to continue working with Castiel without wanting to set fire to himself, the studio, and everyone in it. Sam helped, though he didn’t know exactly what was wrong because Dean wasn’t about to tell him. He threw himself into dancing, and made sure that Charlie was there for the entire duration of every rehearsal they had alone.

Still, though, it hurt a little whenever he would glance Castiel’s way and never catch his eye. Or for him to have stopped touching Dean entirely. Or the moment he got the text message cancelling their late-night rehearsal sessions.

One afternoon after rehearsals for _Giselle_ , Dean received a summons to Naomi’s office. His stomach immediately dropped into his feet, but he gathered his things and followed the executive assistant (he thought her name was Lydia? She was very pretty, but also incredibly rude). Naomi’s office was on the ground floor, surrounded by huge windows that showed the slow progress of spring greenery outside. Lydia deposited him at her door, knocked, then opened it at the commanding, “Come in.”

Naomi’s private inner office had a wall of windows, and the view was stunning. Dean was distracted by how much natural light shone in, but quickly turned his attention back to Naomi when she invited him to sit down.

“How are you, Mr. Winchester?” she asked cooly.

Dean clenched his hands, but answered, “I’m fine, Ms. Novak, how are you?”

“Well enough,” she said, in a tone that Dean hadn’t ever actually heard anyone use in real life. He thought maybe it would have been better suited for royalty, but then the Novaks kind of _were_ royalty. “You have attracted a lot of attention,” she continued. Dean shrugged.

“I’m just here to dance, ma’am,” he said. She crossed her arms and Dean worked hard to maintain eye contact. _What did she know?_

“Indeed. Well, it was the board’s request that I pass along our . . . satisfaction with you, Mr. Winchester. You’ve proven yourself well this year. As a dancer.” Dean was quiet; he didn’t know what to say, and was sure there was more. “But, I should warn you that your personal conduct also reflects on the company.”

The blood drained from Dean’s face. She knew. About him and Castiel. She had to, but how could she?

 _Because you guys were making out in plain sight, you dumbass_ , his brain supplied helpfully. She was regarding him, but didn’t seem to want a reply, so he waited instead. Eventually, she must have found what she was looking for because she spoke again.

“I trust you will continue to be a credit to the company. The board thinks you have an impressive future ahead of you, but make sure you don’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

Dean shook his head fervently. “No, ma’am.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester. Lydia will show you out.”

Dean left her office with the compliments and assurances but somehow felt even less confident. Had he lost sight of why he was here? Castiel was a distraction, and he didn’t even want Dean. It had been a stupid mistake, sure, but then why was Castiel occupying all of Dean’s thoughts?

NYBC was the dream. Castiel was off-limits.

He just had to re-think his priorities, that was all.

 

_Castiel_

Castiel was literally about to start banging his head against a wall. The showcase was at the end of the week, and he _still_ hadn’t figured out what to do about Dean’s solo. It wasn’t terrible, but he still couldn’t make whatever magic had happened with Anna work again. Maybe she’d be willing to let her understudy perform for a couple of shows and fly in for it. He entertained the idea for half a second before he scoffed, imagining her voice in his head if he suggested it.

As it was, he’d asked Lisa, a seasoned soloist who was probably only a season or two away from promotion, to come in and watch their rehearsal. Charlie, as usual, tagged along, coming in with Dean and plopping down in her usual spot with her back against the mirror. Ever since he and Dean had . . . well, since that night in the studio, Dean had stopped coming alone to rehearsals. Usually, Charlie came with him, but when she wasn’t able to Dean would bring other friends. Castiel didn’t blame him; it had been dangerous and unprofessional and Castiel still blushed hard, heart racing with shame whenever he thought about it.

(Never mind the fact that it had crept into his fantasies when he was touching himself once or twice since then.)

Dean was here to dance. So was Castiel. He would focus on that as long as he could, and then he would retire, join the board, and never set foot in a studio again. He tried not to feel the creep of disappointment at that.

“Thank you for coming, Lisa,” he said, moving toward the stereo while Dean got into position in the center of the floor. “I’d like you to watch first and then we can work on incorporating you into the piece.”

He and Dean made eye contact, but then Dean quickly looked away, a flush rising in his cheeks. Castiel hoped he didn’t look as bashful as Dean as he turned to his phone and started the music.

The choreography fit Dean like a second skin, now. He’d run through it so many times that he made little adjustments unconsciously. And, he never phoned it in. He always committed to it, even when he wasn’t performing full-out.

The music ended, Dean took a breath, and the small audience applauded. Castiel turned to Lisa, who looked thoughtful.

“Can I see the duet part?” she asked. “Would you be able to do it, Castiel?”

Castiel thought for a moment, his hands going slick at the thought of being in such close proximity to Dean, but even though Castiel himself was well-built, Dean was strong and should be able to do the simple lifts required with him. He looked at Dean, who shrugged.

“Why not? C’mon, man, show us what you got.”

Castiel smiled at the teasing, a ghost of their old camaraderie, then started the music and got into position.

They’d never danced together before, not really. Working out together and puzzling through choreography didn’t count. Their choreography as Hilarion and Albrecht was more pantomime than dance, so, as the music swelled and the partner’s section approached, Castiel’s heart hammered in anticipation.

He hoped Dean didn’t drop him.

With a deep breath, he raced into the choreography, throwing himself into the air, praying Dean would catch him—

And he did, though it probably wasn’t as elegant as with Anna; one of Castiel’s legs didn’t quite make it, so he lifted it quickly into a rear _attitude_ , then had to make quick adjustment because he wasn’t _en pointe_. He had to scramble a bit to get his feet underneath him as Dean went straight through into the next part. Castiel worked to catch up, anxiety rushing through him.

Then they met in the middle and Castiel felt as though time stopped. They looked into each other’s eyes, reaching for each other, as Dean prepared for another lift, but Castiel didn’t feel prepared, so he turned it into a spin instead. Dean’s eyes were bright with exertion, color on his cheeks the same way there had been when Castiel had been kissing him stupid against the barre, and suddenly Castiel wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist and sink to the floor, audience be damned. Dean’s skin was hot where they touched, and he was gazing at Castiel with such intensity that Castiel wished they were in private.

Too quickly, yet not soon enough, the music came to an end, but instead of reaching away from Dean elegantly the way Anna always did, he collapsed back in on himself, pulling away. He thought he saw a moment of confusion in Dean’s eyes before they’d turned away from each other, but he wasn’t sure.

Castiel was panting; he hadn’t realized how rigorous his choreography was. Anna had made it look so effortless, and here he was, out of shape and decidedly _male_ throwing everything out of balance.

Charlie and Lisa were silent, so Castiel stood quickly, trying to catch his breath. “Obviously that wasn’t ideal,” he said, hands on his knees, “but did that give you a picture?”

He looked up, and Charlie and Lisa were both staring, silent. Charlie’s eyebrows were almost in her hairline, and Lisa looked shocked.

“I don’t think you need me, Cas,” she said. Castiel tilted his head.

“You think it’s better as a solo?” he asked.

“No, I think you better come watch this.”

Charlie had been filming on her phone (Castiel hadn’t thought it worthwhile to film a rehearsal in weeks), so she quickly restarted the footage.

“I thought it would be a good gag,” she said, “but, uh . . . you should see for yourself.”

The beginning was the same. Dean was stunning as always, but nothing seemed different. Castiel braced himself for his entrance; he never was very good at watching himself perform. He looked awkward coming in, and the first lift made him cringe. He felt Dean tense next to him and figured he must feel the same way.

Then they made eye contact in the video and it was a completely different story.

“That’s how we have to do it,” Dean said quietly, once the video ended. “It’s perfect.”

And so Castiel had to prepare to perform his own choreography with a man he was unfathomably attracted to in front of a live audience. Perfect.

*****

“Come on, Cas you have to go!”

Castiel was cleaning up from their final studio rehearsal before the showcase as his dancers and their friends begged him to hang out with them.

“Cas, it’s a dance club. We’re talking, like, salsa and swing and only the occasional bump and grind,” Charlie said, her arm looped through Gilda’s. They were already dressed to go out in casual clothes, while most of the other dancers looked like they needed to at least shower and change. Castiel pursed his lips.

“I don’t have clothes here,” he said. Charlie waved a hand.

“That’s okay, Dean said you can borrow.”

Castiel turned to Dean, who was beet red but didn’t say anything to contradict her. Castiel felt his own cheeks go pink at the idea of wearing Dean’s clothes.

“Uh . . .” he managed eloquently. Before he could mount any more than a token protest, he was swept into the locker rooms, a bundle of clothes pressed into his hands.

He took a longer shower than was probably necessary, scrubbing hard at his skin. He could do this. He could spend time with Dean socially without giving in to . . . whatever this was between them. _If only you were just a dancer, and not a future board member . . ._

He scrubbed the unproductive thoughts from his mind, and if he sniffed briefly at Dean’s t-shirt to catch the subtle scent of him, he could always deny it later.

The club was loud, crowded, and dark. His friends quickly paired off and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him suddenly alone with Dean. He glanced at Dean, who caught his eye and then quickly looked away. Dean ran his hand over the back of his hair, eyes darting around the room.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” Dean shouted over the music. Castiel could barely hear him, but nodded.

“I’ll get a table,” Castiel shouted back.

There were a couple of empty tables near the bar, far from the dance floor, so Castiel grabbed one and waited to flag down Dean. Dean made it over with a couple of beers, taking a seat and sliding one across the table to Castiel.

“This isn’t my usual scene, either,” Dean said, leaning in close so he could be heard. Castiel suppressed a shudder at the feeling of Dean’s breath on his ear. He nodded again, not trusting himself to be able to be heard over the noise.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the music, Dean getting progressively antsy the longer they sat there. Charlie, Gilda, Lisa, Aaron, and the others were all on the dance floor for a very long time. The music changed from the pounding of contemporary dance hits to a sultrier salsa, to boisterous swing, just like Charlie had promised. A particularly upbeat swing tune came on, and about halfway through his feet tapping of their own accord, Dean grabbed his wrist.

“C’mon, Fidgety. Let’s go dance.”

Castiel put up a bit of a protest, but Dean’s gentle, guiding touch was irresistible and he followed him as they dodged through the crowd to the dance floor. It was crowded, so Dean ended up pressed up against Cas a little too close for proper swing, but they managed to cut a bit of a path through the dance floor. It was just bad luck, however, that as soon as Dean’s hand made it around Castiel’s waist and onto his lower back, the music faded and changed into a thick, languid modern dance song. Castiel made to bow out as gracefully as he could, but then Dean fixed him with a determined gaze before seeming to come to a conclusion. He wrapped his arm around Cas’s waist, planted his hand on the small of Castiel’s back and pulled them close. Castiel gasped a little at the sudden contact, plastered against Dean from chest to hip, as Dean began to sway. Castiel was stiff at first, but Dean’s determined gaze never wavered and slowly, Castiel relaxed into his hold.

It wasn’t heavy and dirty, but it was sensual, the way Dean led their hips in a slow sway, feet planted wide for range of movement. Eventually, Castiel placed his hands tentatively on Dean’s solid biceps, allowed himself to feel the heat of Dean’s body against his own. Dean wasn’t looking at him, instead staring at some place over his shoulder, but Castiel couldn’t look away. Slowly, he got braver, leaning into Dean and the music. They moved together as easily as they had in the studio, Castiel responding to the unfamiliar sounds and movements. Normally he liked a bit more control (he gravitated toward choreography for a reason, after all), but he felt oddly comfortable in Dean’s embrace.

The dance floor was crowded, and the club was warm, and the longer he was pressed against Dean the harder his heart beat. Castiel let his hands travel up Dean’s shoulders to wrap around his neck. Castiel was considering putting at least a little distance between them when he felt the ghost of Dean’s lips on his neck. He shuddered, and Dean must have felt it because he leaned in to whisper, “We should get out of here” against Castiel’s ear.

They took a taxi to Castiel’s apartment; Castiel paid. By the time they made it up the elevator and to Castiel’s door, Dean had his fingers hooked in the back of Castiel’s jeans . . . in the back of his own jeans that Castiel had borrowed. Dean pressed up against Castiel’s back as he fumbled with the lock. He left hot kisses on the back of Castiel’s neck, which made his hands shake even worse and unlocking the door impossible.

Finally, they stumbled through the door, and Castiel had barely shut it behind him when Dean was on him, bringing their lips together in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

It was feather-light, and spine-tingling. Castiel hissed in a breath past Dean’s lips, pressing back just as gently, just brushing his lips over Dean’s.

“Cas . . .” he breathed, the warmth of it puffing against Castiel’s lips. Castiel nipped at him, a quick peck. Dean whined. “Want you, Cas.”

Castiel surged forward and kissed him hard, want singing through his veins. Dean’s hands found their way up the back of Castiel’s shirt to splay on his lower back, mimicking the position they’d had while dancing. Castiel groaned, running his hands along Dean’s biceps and clinging there.

Dean kissed like it was the main event, and Castiel savored it. His lips were going a little numb by the time he pulled back and insisted, “Bedroom.” Dean nodded, then glanced around him in a daze.

“Uh, not sure . . .” he blinked, eyes clearing. “This is _your_ apartment,” he said blearily. Cas grinned.

“It is.”

“Gonna have to show me where, then.”

Cas gripped the back of Dean’s thighs, and Dean responded automatically, springing up to wrap his legs around Cas’s waist. Cas’s fingers dug into the strong muscles of Dean’s ass while Dean whimpered, clinging to his shoulders and pressing wet kisses along his throat. His apartment wasn’t large, but the master bedroom felt further away as Dean moaned in his ear.

“God, you’re strong,” Dean whispered before worrying Cas’s earlobe between his teeth. He let it go with a soft sound. “Think about it all the time. How fucking _strong_ you are.”

Castiel pressed his own kisses to the parts of Dean’s collarbone and shoulder that he could reach. Finally, he managed to get them to the bedroom where he turned and pressed Dean up against the wall next to the open door. Dean moaned again when Cas’s hips pressed into him, grinding Cas’s erection against his ass.

“Want you to fuck me, Cas,” Dean breathed. Cas’s eyes fluttered and he couldn’t help his own moan that escaped, thrusting involuntarily at the thought.

“Right here?” Cas panted, licking the salt from Dean’s throat. “Like this?” Dean laughed a little breathlessly.

“Maybe next time, Superman.”

“Next time, you’re going to fuck _me_ ,” Cas growled, hefting Dean’s weight back into his arms to stumble across the room and dump Dean onto the bed. His green eyes were bright, glittering like they did when they danced together, and Cas’s heart stuttered as he watched. Dean was gorgeous, cheeks practically glowing as he lay on Cas’s sheets still rumpled from last night’s sleep. Cas wanted to chase the blush down to its source.

“You gonna just stand there starin’ all night?” Dean goaded, but his expression was soft. Cas slowly undressed, watching while Dean licked his lips as Cas bared himself completely to him for the first time. He stepped up to the bed, between Dean’s knees, and tugged gently at Dean’s shirt. Dean whipped it quickly off his head, then laid back so he could unzip his jeans. It wasn’t practiced, or particularly artful. Dean lifted his hips from the bed to slide his pants and underwear down, then Cas knelt and took hold of them, pulling them the rest of the way off. He worked Dean’s shoes and socks from his feet, then ran his hands up Dean’s shapely calves, past his bowed knees, and caressed his inner thighs. When he pulled himself back up to look over the edge of the bed, Dean was propped up on his elbows, watching him with his lip tucked between his teeth, cheeks and eyes bright.

“Is it all right if I stare a little?” Cas asked quietly, kissing the inside of both of his knees. Dean’s breathing picked up as he watched Cas kiss his way up his thighs, alternating sides, lavishing each of them with hot, open-mouthed caresses, until he reached their juncture where Dean’s cock was hard and leaking against his lower belly.

Dean was in fantastic shape, peak dancing condition, and Cas couldn’t help but watch the muscles in Dean’s stomach jump as he ghosted a breath over his erection. Dean moaned, throwing his head back as Cas teased, kitten-licks at the frenulum, then each of his balls in turn. He raked his fingernails lightly over Dean’s inner thighs and they fell apart, letting Cas even closer. He smoothed his palms up Dean’s thighs and caressed the sharp cut of the vee of muscles over his hipbones, watching the subtle shift and interplay of them there as Dean tried to lift his hips closer to Cas’s mouth.

“Cas . . . Cas, please . . .” Dean panted, and, eyes still on Dean’s, Cas guided Dean’s cock into his mouth. Dean moaned as Cas dipped lower, bobbing his head up and down a few times, tasting him.

Dean was average-sized, but it had been a while since Cas had given a blow job, so he took his time working the tip and the first few inches with his mouth while he slid his fist up to meet it. It was probably a little too sloppy, unpracticed, but Cas kept eye contact as much as he could while Dean gripped the sheets and continued to pant out Cas’s name. Cas flicked his tongue over the head, and Dean bit his lip and moaned again.

“Mmm, fuck,” he gasped, then reached down to guide Cas up onto the bed above him, sliding off of Dean’s dick with a slick _pop_. Cas straddled Dean’s hips as Dean pulled him down into another kiss. Cas’s breath hitched at the first naked touch of their erections. Dean swallowed his moans as he pressed tightly against him from shoulder to hip, delving deeply into Cas’s mouth with his tongue. He searched out his own taste, and Cas was distracted by kissing again as he lazily rutted against the crease of Dean’s hip.

“Thought you were gonna fuck me,” Dean murmured against Cas’s lips when they came up for air. Cas blinked back the haze that Dean’s kisses caused to meet his eyes again.

“Do you still want that?” he asked softly, thumb caressing Dean’s cheek. Something vulnerable flashed across Dean’s eyes, and he nodded. Cas pressed a soft but insistent kiss against Dean’s swollen lips before rolling over toward the nightstand to grab supplies. He tossed the small bottle of lube and a condom onto the bed, then leaned up against the headboard and reached for Dean. Dean smirked, bravado back in place, as he crawled up the bed and settled himself across Cas’s thighs, his own legs framing Cas’s thick cock. Dean looked at it almost hungrily, fingernails teasing Cas’s abs as he watched it twitch. They were almost of a size, the two of them, but Cas was a little thicker and darker, flushed purple with arousal. Dean wrapped an experimental hand around him, and Cas’s head thumped back against the headboard as sensation rocked through him.

“Oh, god, Dean,” he managed, clutching at Dean’s forearms. Dean stroked him slowly, thumbing through the pre-come oozing from the head. It was too dry, but Dean’s hand was warm and firm and Cas found he didn’t mind as much as he should. Dean stopped before it became too uncomfortable. Cas whimpered at the loss. Dean smiled sheepishly, bending to kiss Cas again, cocks brushing.

Dean’s kisses were addictive, so much so that Cas hardly noticed the pop of the cap of the lube bottle, vaguely registering the loss of one of Dean’s hands, then a shift as Dean pressed his chest forward, reaching behind himself. He grunted a bit in discomfort, then sighed a little, settling his hips back. Cas felt the brush of the back of Dean’s hand as he worked his hips back slowly, and moaned against Dean’s lips.

“Let me help,” Cas whispered, reaching behind Dean with one hand while the other drew circles around one of Dean’s taut nipples. Dean sucked in a breath as Cas’s fingers brushed over his newly slick rim, circling around where Dean was fingering himself open, teasing his sensitive pucker. Before long, he inserted a second finger, and it wasn’t long after that when he started to grind back on his own fingers, breathing coming more desperately as Cas rubbed harder at his rim and massaged his taint. Cas reached between Dean’s legs to press insistently just behind his balls and Dean let out a long, high-pitched whine. He quickly pulled his fingers from his hole and stopped Cas’s wrist with his dry hand, resting their foreheads together.

“So good, Cas,” Dean breathed. “I could— _fuck_ —I could come like that. But I wanna come on your cock.”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean huffed a small laugh. Cas’s hands were mostly clean, so he was the one to fumble with the wrapper and clumsily roll the condom on. Until that moment, Cas hadn’t noticed his hands were shaking. He’d been so focused on Dean, on his arousal, his sounds, that he hadn’t realized that his own body was thrumming with need. He fought hard against the sensation, trying to tamp down an orgasm that suddenly threatened him now that he was paying attention. He stopped Dean’s hands when he tried to slick Cas up, worried that the other man’s touch would be enough to set him off.

“I, uh,” Cas swallowed hard. “I need a minute.”

Dean seemed to understand, kissing Cas sweetly before grabbing the lube to add a little extra to his hole. Cas looked at him quizzically and Dean shrugged.

“It’s been a while,” he said, “and you’re kinda big.”

Cas laughed, but the moment was enough to calm him down. He poured a generous amount of lube over his cock, then Dean shifted in his lap, guiding Cas to his entrance. Dean’s mouth against his own distracted him at the exact moment of penetration, but Cas pulled back with a gasp as his head breached Dean.

“ _Ohhh_ , you’re tight,” he groaned. Dean chuckled, then kissed Cas’s sweaty forehead, slowly sinking down inch by inch as his tight, slick heat enveloped Cas torturously slowly. Dean’s impressive thigh muscles worked to keep his rate of descent steady until eventually his ass rested against the top of Cas’s thighs. “Oh, fuck, you feel good.”

“So do you, baby,” Dean said against Cas’s lips, and if Cas thought that being inside Dean was heaven, it was nothing compared to what it felt like when Dean _moved_.

Dean fucked like he danced: it was passion and rhythm and expertise but without any finesse. He chased his pleasure on Cas’s cock and Cas was just along for the ride. Dean bounced once or twice, accustoming to Cas’s girth, but then he started rolling his hips, bucking and grinding as he rode him. Cas’s entire body was full of electricity, sparks lighting him up as heat built deep in his groin. The headboard thumped against the wall, but Cas was unconcerned as Dean rode him with enthusiasm. Eventually, Cas managed to scoot down the bed enough to get his feet braced against it and met Dean’s thrusts. It changed the angle enough to make Dean cry out, and Cas aimed for that spot every time. Dean’s timing grew erratic, so Cas reached down to wrap his fist around Dean. Dean threw his head back, biting his lip.

“Fuck . . . _fuck_ , Cas, gonna—gonna make me come—”

“I’m not gonna . . . won’t last . . .”

Cas worked Dean’s cock quickly, his own orgasm building fast, then, suddenly, Dean was clenching around him, groaning into Cas’s shoulder as he pumped his release over Cas’s fist and onto Cas’s stomach. Cas thrust hard into Dean a few more times as Dean went limp against him, feeling Dean’s come drip down his skin and start to pool places like his belly button, then pulled Dean hard into his lap, thrusting deep one last time and then grinding out his orgasm into Dean’s ass. When he finally came down, Dean was whispering into his ear, over and over, “I’ve got you, babe, I’ve got you . . .”

It took a long time for Cas to catch his breath, further proof of how out of shape he was, but Dean was instantly radiant. When Cas finally blinked up at him, Dean was grinning, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes bright. He shifted slightly, wincing as Cas’s softening cock slipped from his ass, before laying on his side. He reached for Cas, encouraging him to slide down the rest of the way and lay facing him against the pillows. Cas went to caress his cheek, then noticed the mess drying on his hand and stomach. He excused himself to the bathroom to take care of the mess and the condom, returning to Dean with a warm wash cloth. When Cas deposited the used washcloth in the hamper in the bathroom, he wasn’t sure what would happen next. Did Dean want to stay? He shouldn’t stay.

Cas wanted Dean to stay.

The question was answered for him, however, when he came back to find Dean had crawled under the covers, cradling a pillow under his head. Cas couldn’t help the smile on his face as he turned off the light and made his way to the bed. After he’d settled under the covers, Dean wriggled closer, pillowing his head on Cas’s chest and settling there.

“Is this okay?” Dean asked. The question was quiet, tentative, even though Dean was clinging like a barnacle. Cas ran gentle fingers through Dean’s hair, then pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Of course,” Cas said, wrapping his arms around Dean. His heart threatened to burst out of his chest, even though there was a little kernel of anxiety starting to well up behind his ribs.

He could deal with that in the morning.

*****

It had been a long time since Castiel woke up with someone in his arms, so when he awoke to the feeling of being wrapped around Dean, it took him a moment to remember what happened. He was grateful that they hadn’t had much to drink, so he could remember every touch, every kiss, and he smiled into the back of Dean’s neck before placing a soft kiss there. Dean stirred in his arms, and then burrowed closer, clinging tight to Castiel’s arms.

“I’m going to go start coffee,” Castiel murmured, but Dean just grabbed on tighter, pulling Castiel in impossibly closer and burying his face in Castiel’s arms.

“Five more minutes,” he groaned, but Castiel just laughed a little and kissed the shell of his ear.

“Coffee,” Castiel said before extricating himself again.

He leaned against the kitchen counter as the coffee machine bubbled to life, contemplating the world to which he’d awoken.

He wished the situation was uncomplicated. Dean was funny, and smart, and completely charming, but also unassuming and kind (not to mention terrific in bed). He was definitely someone that Castiel could easily fall for.

And that was his problem. If anyone from the company, from his family, found out what had happened, he risked his own position on the board and any chance Dean might have of being given a permanent spot there.

The coffee finished, so Castiel poured two mugs and carried them into the bedroom. Dean was laying spread out like a starfish across the entire bed, slats of sunlight falling across the freckled skin on his back. Castiel’s heart attempted to escape through his throat.

One morning. He could let himself have one morning.

He sat on the edge of the bed and nudged Dean with his elbow. Dean groaned, burying his face further into the covers.

“Coffee,” Castiel said simply, and Dean perked up enough to roll over. He accepted the steaming mug from Castiel gratefully and took a sip. Castiel did the same, watching him.

Dean was beautiful, that was the truth, no matter what the outcome of today was. Dean took another drink, then smiled up at him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, but he was wrong. Dean was sunshine; his grin was literally the sun. Castiel couldn’t help but grin back.

“Hello, Dean,” he replied, sipping his own coffee.

“Can we just do this all day?” Dean asked, sitting up against the headboard. The covers fell down from his waist, showing off the excellent cut of his abs and hip bones. Castiel wanted to lick them, follow the contours with his tongue, but they didn’t have time.

“I wish,” Castiel said. “We have to be at the theatre by noon to do final technical run throughs, and I have to go to the final fitting for my costume.”

A jolt of butterflies assaulted Castiel’s stomach at the thought of the performance tonight. It was only a run of three nights, but tonight the most important critics would be there. Dean seemed to sense his unease, so he laid a gentle hand on Castiel’s knee, stroking his skin with a thumb.

“It’s gonna be awesome,” Dean said, smiling broadly. “You’re a great choreographer, Cas. They’re gonna love it.”

Castiel made a small noise in response. “As long as my own inadequate dancing doesn’t fuck it up.” Dean laughed.

“Dude, did you see us? That video was incredible. You should post it as the sequel, that shit’d blow up.”

Castiel blushed. “I’m still embarrassed anyone ever saw the first one,” he said.

“Why?” Dean demanded. “Dude, your solo vid was _amazing_. Like, Sergei Polunin levels of bad ass. _And_ you used a female artist, which was even cooler.”

Castiel shook his head. “I am amazed by the amount of faith you have in me.” A strange look crossed Dean’s face.

“You, uh.” He cleared his throat. “You’re kinda the reason I dance, man.” Castiel was perplexed.

“What do you mean?” Dean looked sheepish, ducking his head and playing with the comforter, but he continued.

“When I was ten, my teachers took all of the serious dancers from my studio to watch the finals of the Prix. I was pretty good at that age, but I was still thinkin’ that dance was for girls, y’know? And those dancers at the Prix, man, I remember thinking, ‘I could never do that.’ Dance was for chicks, but, like, really _awesome_ chicks who could dance _en pointe_ with bloody toes and stress fractures. My, uh . . . my dad didn’t think it was too cool, having a son who wanted, um, that. So, anyway, we’re at the Prix and all these beautiful girls are doing incredible things, and then this kid, this gangly kid just a few years older than me gets out there and fucking _kills_ it.” Castiel wonders for a moment, but Dean looks him directly in the eyes and continues, “You went out there that day and danced fucking Albrecht and won your scholarship to the Royal Ballet and you fucking changed my life, dude.” He faltered a little on the last part, but didn’t look away, so Castiel had to in order to escape the intensity. Dean was quiet for a moment longer before sliding his hand further up Castiel’s bare thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there, and Castiel shivered. Dean ducked down to grab Castiel’s eye contact again, and said, “Thank you, for that.”

Castiel was struck dumb and had no idea how to respond, so instead he put his coffee on the nightstand, took Dean’s face in both of his hands and kissed him.

It was too late. He had already fallen.

They managed to make it out of bed (both dressed in Castiel’s clothes this time instead of Dean’s) to make it to the theatre on time, but the costumer gave one woeful look at Castiel’s hair before he promised to take another shower before the performance. She sighed, then held out his costume and pointed at the changing room. He put it on (just a pair of thick tights and a loose tank-top-like tunic like Dean’s, only in green instead of the blue that Dean wore), went through a few _adagio_ routines to make sure the fit was good, then changed back and raced up to the theatre to check staging, sound, and lighting cues.

He had to cover a sputter with a cough when one of the trio dancers complimented Dean on the cut of his new jeans, but to be fair it would’ve been difficult for anyone to remain coherent with Dean winking at them like that.

A few run-throughs without Castiel proved the timing was right, and then they ran it twice more with him in order to get used to the staging. After a near-miss on the first lift on the initial run, everything went smoothly so they were sent on their way for the next group. Dean and Castiel went to grab some dinner nearby before engaging in a distracting makeout session in the empty company shower room. Dean didn’t seem too keen on stopping, so Castiel had to pry the two of them apart so that they could be ready on time.

Castiel had never had to perform with a boner in his dance belt before, but Dean was definitely pushing his boundaries.

The best thing about the entire situation, though, was the small good-luck kiss Dean gave him before they went on. He felt the phantom of Dean’s lips against his the entire time they danced, and they were so focused on each other that Castiel nearly forgot they had an audience. Once the performance was over and the crowd roared and jumped to its feet, Castiel had to stop himself from kissing the giant, stupid grin right off of Dean’s face in front of the entire company.

After the performances, and the dancers had a chance to shower and change (sans necking and groping, since the showers were otherwise occupied), they made their way up to another reception. Castiel blushed crimson when they announced his name and the entire gathering burst into applause. He was used to the attention, to the accolades, but to be accepted for his work as a choreographer, rather than a dancer, was something he had rarely experienced.

He meant to stick by Dean’s side the whole time, but almost immediately he was pulled away with a cry of “Castiel!”

“I’ll be over by the bar, babe,” Dean whispered in his ear surreptitiously as he passed. Castiel watched him go with a bittersweet feeling.

Castiel was immediately distracted by Crowley, who had beckoned him over. He scowled. “What do you want, Crowley?” The man put on a look of fake shock.

“Really, Castiel, is that any way to speak to your future peer?” he sneered. Castiel merely raised an eyebrow at him. Crowley raised both hands in supplication, a gesture somewhat mitigated by the champagne flute in one hand. “Honestly, I mean no harm. I’ve simply come to congratulate you. Excellent work, as always.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said.

“Your boy will certainly do well,” Crowley added, nodding toward Dean. Castiel stiffened.

“Thank you. He isn’t ‘my boy.’” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, Feathers, air quotes? Really, though, I’d be a little afraid that someone might come steal him away.”

“Dean’s lifelong dream is to dance for The Company, Crowley. I don’t think he’ll be going elsewhere if he’s offered a contract here.”

“And what will they say when they find out he’s been screwing the boss’s son to get there?”

Castiel refrained from hitting Crowley, but only just. He clenched his hands into fists instead. “Really, Crowley, what do you want?”

Crowley took a step closer, and Castiel stepped back reflexively. Crowley sighed, and leaned forward a little instead. “All I’m saying is a little birdie told me there’s more to Naomi’s retirement than meets the eye,” he said, fishing a business card out of his pocket. “If you ever want to come calling, know that I’m here. I could use a talent like you.” He winked at Castiel. “Call me if you ever want to make a deal.”

With that, Crowley disappeared into the crowd, leaving Castiel puzzling over his meaning. He turned the business card over in his hand before deciding to tuck it into his pocket. Before long, Dean materialized at his shoulder.

“What did he want?”

Dean was entirely too close for the company they were in, so Castiel subtly side-stepped him and moved away.

“He gave me his card. Not sure why. We’ll be on the board together soon.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, “I keep forgetting you’re going to retire soon.”

Dean said it so casually, so easily, but an icy hand wrapped its fist around Castiel’s heart at the words. “I’m a little tired,” Castiel said, “I think I’m going to call it an early night.”

“Sure,” Dean said, searching Castiel’s face to see if there was anything wrong. “Um, text me, maybe? If you want.”

Castiel couldn’t help his smile. “Of course,” he said, then leaned in to press a quick peck to Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel glanced around in a panic to see if anyone had noticed, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. He quickly fled the party and caught a cab ride home. Before he could get upstairs, however, his phone dinged with a text notification.

 _Dean, 10:01pm >>>>_gabe is drunk and yelling at ur mom. ur missing out!

Castiel laughed. If there was one thing he was sure he didn’t mind missing, it was an intoxicated Gabriel getting into another altercation with his mother. Honestly, Gabriel was the one bright spot of joining the board. Dean mentioning his impending retirement had put him in a funk. He hadn’t thought he would be so attached to dancing again. Sure, he had more aches and pains and trips to the trainer than he had in his early years, but dance was his life. Being so close, and yet not able to be part of it would be almost more than he could take.

Deciding to squash those thoughts, Castiel went to bed and managed to fall asleep much sooner than he’d thought he’d be able to, with so many things on his mind.

*****

Castiel woke on Monday morning to a rare summons from his mother. Naomi hardly ever wanted to see him, much less speak with him in her office. He’d spent the weekend trying to think about how to distance himself from Dean without completely alienating him, but had come to the conclusion that it was something like a breakup and those were never not awkward.

Rehearsals for _Giselle_ were in full swing, and Castiel was definitely feeling the fact that Albrecht was a role meant for a principal. He was tired all the time, ached and could hardly drag himself out of bed. He trudged into Naomi’s office through the gray, dreary day, feeling the weather reflecting his mood.

Lydia acknowledged him with a curt nod before knocking on Naomi’s door to let him in.

“Come in,” she said, as she always did. She’d even greeted him like that when he was a child. It had never been anything but business with Naomi Novak.

“Castiel,” she said in her warmest tone. It made Castiel wary. “Please have a seat.”

He sat in front of her desk, and she spent a long moment not speaking, even after the door had closed. Finally, before he managed to ask her what she’d called him in for, she handed him a typed letter.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Crowley’s resignation from the board,” she said. Castiel’s eyebrows shot up. “Apparently, he’s been hired as executive director of our rival company. He and I had a meeting this morning during which we drew up a severance contract. The first item of which is that he may not steal any of our talent.”

“Talent?” Castiel asked. “You mean dancers?”

“And choreographers. It’s a non-competition agreement, and it shouldn’t hurt him to obey it. There are plenty of dancers in New York, and they already have a strong company built to begin with. There is no need for him to poach any of ours.”

The business card Crowley had handed Castiel on Friday night was burning a hole in his wallet. Castiel’s heart raced. Is this what he’d been talking about? He knew Castiel wanted to choreograph, and that Naomi wasn’t going to let him . . .

“Castiel, I know you’ve been seeing that boy.”

The blood drained from his face. “He isn’t a boy,” he said, knowing that playing dumb wouldn’t work. Naomi pursed her lips.

“He’s a child compared to you, Castiel. You’re one of the most talented dancers in the modern ballet world. You’re going to be an excellent board member and one day inherit this company.”

“I don’t want that.”

“You don’t know what you want! You spent two years sleeping in ditches and moldy roach motels along nowhere highways, and before that you were drinking yourself into a stupor and shooting up at every opportunity, wasting all of the time and effort spent on nurturing your natural gift.”

Castiel seethed. “If it’s a ‘gift’ then why are you making me leave it?” Naomi sighed, exasperated.

“I thought that’s what you wanted! If you were so ready to bail out of the company to go traipsing across the country doing god-knows-what, then maybe you could throw it all away for something useful! This company has always had a Novak on the board, and it always _will_!”

“You have Gabriel!” Castiel nearly shouted. “What about Anna? Why don’t you make her do it?”

“Please, Anna is a flighty artist at best, and Gabriel is a mistake. You are the only one that we can pin our hopes on.”

“Hopes for what?”

“I’m being forced out!” Naomi hissed. “The board no longer thinks that I am capable of remaining unbiased while I sit there since I was the one that insisted we bring you back! Did you know they all think of you as a _liability_ , Castiel? _I_ saved you. _I_ fixed you. Now, because of _you_ , I’m being forced into retirement and you are the only replacement who understands how important I have been to this company because I have saved your reckless, thankless little ass more times than I can count!”

Castiel was shocked. He stared at her for a long time before she finally composed herself. “You think I’m broken,” Castiel said dully. She glared at him.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she snapped. “I simply need you to do your part and fall in line. Any further dallying with the Winchester boy will result in his immediate suspension and ban from the company.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, Castiel, I would. Just try and test me.”

Rage coursed through Castiel’s veins. Of course he’d known it would be a conflict of interest if he was dating Dean while on the board, but this . . . this was . . .

“Push me, and I will ruin you and that little slut,” Naomi said, devoid of emotion. “We’re done here.”

At that, Lydia must have been listening for some cue, because Naomi’s door opened behind him and Castiel was shown out.

The problem was that Castiel didn’t have anyone to go to. For as cruel as she’d been, Naomi was right. Gabriel was merely a figurehead on the board. As much as Castiel loved him, there wasn’t anything he could do to help. He couldn’t go to Crowley, not without violating his contract and leaving Dean in the lurch, and Zachariah was completely under Naomi’s control.

Why did she need him? She had enough pawns in play that she didn’t have to use Castiel. She’d been controlling him since he was young, and she needed . . . she had to have him. Collect everyone under her thumb.

In the end, what it came down to was that Castiel was going to have to break up with Dean. He would have to break up with Dean to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Youth America Grand Prix is a real thing. It's a prestigious, international ballet organization that hosts competitions, workshops, and auditions around the world. Competition winners can earn scholarships to train with companies across the globe.


	4. Act IV: Giselle

_Dean_

“Whoa, dude, nice hickey.”

Dean’s hand immediately flew to his neck, which made Sam burst into laughter. Dean scowled, making his way into the bathroom to check his reflection. Dammit, he and Cas had been so careful about marks; he could have sworn he would have noticed if there’d been . . .

There was nothing in his reflection, even when he leaned up close to the mirror to check both sides of his neck and any visible skin. Sam laughed again, long and loud from the hallway.

“There’s no hickey, but now I wanna know who you think would’ve put one there?”

“You’re a dick, Sam, you know that?” Dean said, pushing past his brother and back to the door. He grabbed his dance bag and stormed toward his room. Sam followed him like a puppy.

“Is it Cas?”

Dean threw his bag onto his bed. “Of course it’s Cas, who else would it be?”

Sam put up his hands defensively. “Hey, hey, how am I supposed to know? I barely see you.” Dean sighed.

“Yeah, I know, but we’re rehearsing for four different ballets right now, plus I’ve got that shit with my contract—”

“Whoa, hey, I know! I’ve got school, I know our schedules don’t line up. I just, uh . . . you’ve been happy, I think, which is good.”

Dean never could resist when Sam looked like a kicked puppy; the tension fell out of his shoulders and he sighed. “That’s ‘cause I kinda am. Happy.” Sam beamed. “Yeah, yeah, shut up.”

He unpacked his dance bag, tossing dirty tights and leotards into the hamper, but not before threatening to throw them at Sam, who held his nose dramatically against the smell. They were both laughing before long as Dean re-packed his bag for the next day.

“Hey! Since I’ve got tonight off, want to go do something? Dinner or whatever?” Dean asked. Sam looked sheepish.

“I can’t. I kinda have plans.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh yeah? What kind of plans? Study group?”

“Um, not really. It’s kind of . . . a . . . date . . .”

Dean gasped flamboyantly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Our dear Samantha has a _date_?”

“Sure, Dean, make fun of me when you’ve got a damn hickey on your neck.”

“There is NO HICKEY!”

Sam laughed all the way into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Dean never did get his girlfriend’s name, but it was only a matter of time.

Dean was grinning at his phone as he typed out a text to Cas.

Dean, 8:31pm>>>> _im kinda wired. wanna grab coffee?_

A few moments later, his phone buzzed with a return text.

Cas, 8:34pm>>>> _Not tonight._

Dean frowned, but then another text came through.

Cas, 8:35pm>>>> _Tomorrow?_

Dean’s smile returned, and he sent back an affirmative reply. He hardly trusted the champagne bubble feeling in his chest, but it was nice, and he was going to lean into it as long as he could.

*****

Dean was working through an _adagio_ combination in the center, waiting for Castiel to meet him for their late-night rehearsal, thinking about his recent emails. Ellen was getting demanding about tickets for _Giselle_ ; the whole family was planning to come up again for his final season performance. Unfortunately, donors and season ticket holders had first choice, so he had to do some creative bargaining to make sure his family got good seats.

Plus, Sam had finally admitted his girlfriend’s name ( _Eileen_ , apparently) and then, as repayment, insisted that Dean get _them_ tickets for opening night as a date.

He was hoping his kinda-sorta-not-boyfriend might be able to help.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean looked up to see Cas standing near the mirror, watching him. Dean blushed, moving toward the stereo to set up for their rehearsal.

“Hey, Cas. You okay?”

Cas nodded, then looked around the room for a moment before slipping out of his street shoes and into his ballet slippers.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

Dean eyed the pinch between Cas’s brows skeptically. Cas sighed.

“I’m fine, Dean, really. It’s just . . . it’s been a long day.”

“What’s up?”

Cas stared at him for a long time, but this wasn’t a normal stare. Dean’s insides usually squirmed when Cas turned his intense gaze on him, but this time it was cold, not triggering the typical ball of warmth that had developed over the past few months. He almost opened his mouth to ask again, when Cas suddenly looked away.

“Let’s just start so that I can suffer through this.”

But here was the thing; Cas was _amazing_. In the time since they’d started rehearsing together, his second act variations had become _perfection_. Even on tired legs, his _entrechat sixes_ were even and energetic, and it gave Dean chills to watch him do the same passages that had inspired him all those years ago at the Prix.

It was going to be a tour de force. A career-topping high.

“Um . . .” was all Dean managed when Cas looked to him for feedback. Cas sighed and threw up his hands.

“Well, sorry, but you know you can’t critique perfection.” Cas scowled.

“That is still unimaginably unhelpful.”

“Hey, you’re cute when you pout.”

That earned him a glare, which made Dean laugh. “Look,” he said, standing from his place against the mirror and slowly approaching Cas. “I don’t know what to tell you. Your technique is flawless, your musicality is the best in the industry, and you know the role like the back of your hand. You don’t need me.” He gulped, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away. Cas placed a gentle hand on his cheek and turned Dean’s gaze back to meet his own.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. Dean licked his lips, watching Cas’s eyes track it before he licked his own reflexively.

“We still talkin’ about ballet, here?” Dean joked. Cas rubbed his thumb lightly over Dean’s lower lip, but before Dean could lean in and chase Cas’s lips, Cas pulled away and went back to his offstage position.

“Again,” he said, and Dean trudged back up to the stereo to start the movement over.

*****

Hilarion died during Act II, but Dean had never felt so alive.

The previews had been one thing, but the energy of the opening night crowd was _insane_. Dean couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face as he bounced around backstage to wait for the curtain call. Several of the _corps_ dancers playing Wilis gave him nasty looks, but he made sure to stay out of their way. He was professional like that.

“ _Good work, Dean_ ,” Hannah hissed to him before she rushed to her final entrance as Giselle. He just grinned wider, then went to find a good place in the wings to watch Cas’s final movement.

God, how did Dean get so damn lucky? Cas was amazing, just like Dean predicted. The audience went nuts the moment he walked onstage, and despite his professional stoicism (and the seriousness required of the role), Dean saw the sparkle in his eyes. Cas lived for this, for performance. It was still hard to believe he’d only come back this season, and that he would be retiring again at the end of the run. The world was definitely going to miss out.

(Never mind the fact that his ass looked like sin in those tights.)

The ballet ended, the final curtain fell, and Dean rushed out onto the stage to get ready for the curtain call, adrenaline pumping through him. He wanted nothing more than to cross the extra yards to throw his arms around Cas the way Hannah was doing, but he managed to restrain himself. The curtain came back up and Dean soaked in the applause like it was his fuel. He always felt on top of the world after a performance, but now he felt like he could frickin’ _fly_.

As soon as the curtains closed again, Dean was rushed by half the members of the company wanting to congratulate him. He smiled and hugged and shook hands, making sure everyone knew how much he loved their performances, too. In the middle of the crowd, he searched for Cas, but didn’t see him above the sea of petite female dancers.

He didn’t find him in the dressing rooms, either, so he showered and changed for the reception.

The lobby was full and cheerful as Dean made his way into the crowd, still looking for Cas. He was probably being swarmed with admirers after that performance, so Dean wove through the throng, hoping to stumble on him.

“Dean!”

His moose of a brother appeared, towering over the people around him. He had a gorgeous brunette on his arm.

“Sammy!” Dean shouted, and Sam immediately pulled him into a hug.

“You were awesome, Dean!” Sam gushed. “You’ve got a spot in the company for sure!”

“Yeah, okay, don’t jinx anything. I still have plenty of time to fuck up.” Dean turned to Sam’s date. “You must be Eileen!”

“Yes,” Eileen said, extending a hand. Dean shook it, then Eileen pulled him into a hug. Dean laughed as Eileen pulled back to speak while looking directly at him. “You were amazing! It was beautiful!”

“Thank you!” Dean replied, sure to enunciate so she could read his lips. When Sam had mentioned she was deaf, Dean had kind of freaked out about making sure he was accommodating to her. Sam had said that was nice, but just to not be an idiot.

“Is Cas around?” Sam asked. Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

Eileen smacked him on the arm. “It’s because Sam has a giant crush on your boyfriend.” Sam sputtered.

“He—I don’t—”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean said, but Eileen raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t have a crush on him,” Sam protested. Eileen rolled her eyes.

“I swear, you two. Sam would not shut up about him the entire time. He’s infatuated. I think you’ve got some competition, Dean.”

Some movement near the bar caught Dean’s eye, and there, suddenly, as though summoned, was Cas. He was wearing a navy blue tux and black bowtie, deep in conversation with Crowley, from the board. He looked amazing, and Dean’s heart fluttered in his chest.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Dean said. “Stick around, okay? Have a couple drinks and I’ll be back.”

He left Sam and Eileen behind and made a beeline for Cas. He was practically glowing under the soft golden light, and Dean’s heart was aching with the need to be near him. Cas saw him as he was approaching, and something in the way Dean looked must have given him away, because Cas placed a hand on his elbow and guided him toward an empty balcony.

The weather had warmed up, and with it the smell of the city was stronger. Dean breathed in deeply, taking in the evening air, as Cas moved all the way into a secluded corner, away from the open door. It was quieter, darker, and Dean smiled, moving in to lay a gentle kiss on Cas’s lips. Cas kissed back briefly, before pushing Dean back.

“Dean, we need to talk.”

A bubble burst in Dean’s chest. _Don’t worry yet_ , he told himself. “What’s up, Cas?”

Cas scrubbed his hands over his face, turning away and not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I can’t see you anymore.”

The bottom fell even further out of Dean’s stomach. “You, uh . . . what?”

“We need to maintain distance from each other.” Dean nodded, taking another step back.

“Oh, yeah, sure. We haven’t been exactly _discreet_ —”

“No, Dean.” Cas clenched his fists and looked directly into Dean’s eyes. “We need to break up.”

Dean’s stomach churned, first with icy numbness, then hurt, then anger. “We were never together,” he seethed. Cas reached out for him, but Dean yanked his arm back.

“Dean—”

“No, no, Cas, I get it. I, uh. Yeah.” The lead ball in his stomach was weighing him down. “You, um . . . have a nice life, or whatever.”

“Dean!”

“What did you think would happen, Castiel?” Dean demanded, watching hurt pass over Cas’s face. Dean shook his head. “Man, I knew I wasn’t good enough for you, but . . . I dunno . . .”

Somewhere in the back of Dean’s head, a spark of a memory or idea tried to get hold of him, but numbness was washing over him. He turned away from Castiel and walked back into the party, where Sam and Eileen were watching him cross the room.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked. Dean grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

“Peachy,” he said, throwing back a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Hey, I’m gonna call it a night, but I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

He didn’t stop to hear Sam’s reply. He just needed to get as far away from the building as he could.

*****

For the next week Dean managed to go through the motions of performance. He attended class and rehearsal in the morning, performed adequately in the evening, then went home. He’d received praise on his performance in _The New York Times_ , which should have made him ecstatic, but instead he just thought about what he might say if the company offered him a job.

By the week after that, Dean had started noticing Castiel again. The first time it happened, they were doing a clean-up run through after a short break in performances. They were going through the Hilarion-Albrecht fight scene in the first act when suddenly Dean became hyper aware of Castiel’s presence. They ducked down close to each other and then all Dean could see was _blue_. He stumbled over a step, but caught up quickly and managed to calm his racing breath enough to finish the number.

After that, Cas was everywhere. He demonstrated beautiful extension in _adagio_ classes; he was grabbing coffee with Charlie at the café across the street. And, of course, every night he danced Albrecht to perfection, bringing audiences to their knees.

(And, once or twice, he crept into Dean’s dreams on _his_ knees. Mouth open, begging to taste him, until Dean thrust into that slick heat over and over until he came down his throat. But Dean tried not to dwell on that.)

The longer they went without speaking, the more the tight ball of anger and hurt unknotted in Dean’s stomach until he just _ached_. He wanted Castiel. Far more than he wanted to admit to himself or anyone else.

Finally, _Giselle_ ’s closing night came. Dean was nervous enough that it chased the achy feeling from his limbs for the first time in weeks. Mary, Bobby, Ellen, and Jo showed up again, making their tiny apartment stuffed to the gills for the first time since Christmas.

“Oh, Dean,” Mary had said, pulling back from their hug and framing Dean’s face in her hands. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, swatting his mom away. He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat, though, and had to disappear to his room for a minute to pretend to re-pack his already full dance bag.

The dressing room was particularly tense beforehand, though it might’ve just been Dean. Obviously more was going on than Dean’s own personal drama, what with it being Castiel’s final performance. There was major press gathered for the event, and there was going to be a big ceremony following the performance to honor Castiel’s work.

Dean had watched Castiel fight with a few board members over it, including his mother, since he’d already had a retirement ceremony. The board wanted to continue, though, citing it as “tradition.”

Castiel and Dean weren’t seated anywhere near each other in the mirrors, but more than once Dean thought he felt Castiel’s eyes flick in his direction. He never caught him, though, and once Dean was ready he headed out to the stage to warm up.

The performance was strange. His fight scene with Castiel was particularly intense. He felt his stomach tighten during it like he was actually in some kind of bar brawl. He had to focus on restraining himself as he grappled with Castiel, closer to each other and in more physical contact than the choreography initially called for.

He shook that off, though, for the remainder of the performance. He couldn’t let whatever the hell was going on with Castiel interfere with his own work.

He was determined to succeed without him.

His final death as Hilarion felt like a satisfying conclusion to the year. The audience applauded loudly for him, and part of him wanted to simply slink away until the end of the act, but he also knew that Castiel’s last moments onstage were historic, and for the sake of ballet, he wanted to stay to watch.

At first, it looked like Castiel’s usual performance. Everything was measured and consistent, like the consummate professional Castiel was. Then, toward the end of the movement, Dean saw it start to slip. His extensions were longer, his _pliés_ were deeper, and the entire performance grew more emotional. The audience was silent and still; obviously they could tell, too. Then, when he turned upstage, Dean saw the glimmer of the lights on a single tear on Castiel’s cheek.

_Oh, god_.

The last six months came crashing down around Dean’s ears and hit him in the chest with enough force to take his breath away. Suddenly, he needed the performance to be over. He _had_ to talk to Castiel.

The curtain fell and the crowd rose to its feet in a standing ovation. Dean smiled and hugged company members as he made his way to his place for the curtain call. His heart thudded through his bows, then the minute that the curtain fell again he ran to where Castiel was moving to the wings to walk out in front of the act curtain for the ceremony.

“Wait, Castiel!” he called, pushing past a few _corps_ members to reach him. He managed to grab his arm and turn him around before Castiel made it all the way offstage. Panic filled Castiel’s eyes.

“I can’t, Dean,” he said, trying to move away and talk quietly at the same time. Dean shook his head.

“No, no, I gotta say something first,” he said, swallowing a few times against his dry mouth. “I gotta, gotta get this out or I won’t, so just listen okay?”

Castiel’s eyes darted toward the wings, but he nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay . . . okay . . .” Dean’s hands were sweating. “I’m no good at this, but you gotta know, Cas. I’m falling for you. _Have_ fallen for you, and no job, no company is worth more than that.”

Castiel looked stricken. Someone offstage called his name frantically. Somewhere over the speakers in the auditorium Naomi Novak’s voice was droning on as she told lies about what her son’s life was like and how excited he was to retire, but Dean hung on.

Finally, Castiel moved. He blinked, looking around, and then . . . he closed off.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, stiffly, before he turned and darted offstage.

Dean didn’t wait. He didn’t want to see the looks of pity from everyone around him. He pushed down his panic and rushed back to the dressing room. Once there, he fired off a text to let his family know he’d gone home.

“Fuck this,” Dean breathed. He’d deal with the fallout tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to go home.

 

_Castiel_

Castiel tugged on the knot of his tie, loosening it just a bit in the hot air of the boardroom. The suit wasn’t new, but for some reason the way it fit him today, his first day as a board member, was more constraining (and hotter) than he remembered.

He watched as Roman, new Board president, signed each of the company members’ contracts, reading the name and position aloud as it passed him.

“Dean Winchester, first soloist.”

_He deserves to be a principal_ , Castiel thought. At least Dean would be happy; he would probably be able to work his way up to principal in a season. He was a good fit for the company, too, from an objective viewpoint. He was a great partner, and could work with any of the current female principals at the drop of a hat.

Anna would be ecstatic, once he told her.

He tried not to let himself stray to old, stale thoughts, as Gabriel made some joke and the board adjourned for the day.

The studio was nearly empty for the summer; most of the dancers were already on vacation, and the first wave of summer intensives wouldn’t start for another week or so. Castiel found himself wandering the hall of the main practice studios, peeking in to dark, empty rooms.

On impulse, he pushed his way into one of the larger rehearsal halls and went to hook up his phone to the sound system. It turned on obediently, and before he could overthink it, he moved to the center of the room and started dancing.

The old choreography felt fitting, even though he had to adjust it in his suit. He didn’t particularly care if he ripped something, though. With his new salary, he could afford a whole new wardrobe.

The viral video he’d decided to do on a whim felt nostalgic now. Castiel knew he wouldn’t be able to dwell in the melancholy for long, but here, one last time in the studio, he let himself miss it.

He let himself miss Dean.

The music came to an end, his music player shuffled to some other song with less sentimental value, and Castiel sat in the middle of the studio floor and caught his breath.

“It’s kinda unfair, how good you are.”

Castiel’s eyes flew open. Standing in the doorway, framed by the hallway light, arms crossed over his chest, was Dean. He stared for a moment before he found his voice to reply.

“I’m no more talented than anyone else,” Castiel replied.

“Bullshit.”

Castiel laughed, looking down at his hands. “Congratulations on making the company, Dean,” he said to the floor. “You’re going to make a great addition.”

Dean scoffed. “I’m not taking it.” Castiel’s head snapped up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“I know it wasn’t principal, but I’m confident that the spot is yours within a year—”

“It’s not the position, Cas, it’s the company. There’s no way I would be happy here.”

Great. He’d done everything he could to try not to ruin Dean’s dream and he did it anyway. Of course.

“I’m sorry that my presence has become so distressing to you,” Castiel said woodenly. “I can assure you that with my position on the board, I will have little to no contact with dancers—”

Dean actually laughed out loud at that, stepping into the room. “You think I’m worried about—” He stopped himself. “I don’t give a shit if you’re on the board or not, Cas. That’s not even what this is about. I mean, since you said something, yeah, it sucks that you don’t feel the way I do, but don’t flatter yourself to think this is about _you_.”

Castiel stared at him. “The Company was your dream,” he managed weakly.

“No, man. _Dancing_ is the dream. And after this season, I just don’t think NYBC is a good fit.”

“Can I ask why?”

Dean’s expression was hard, but unreadable. He seemed to make a decision about something and nodded. “Gabriel told me about Naomi and Zachariah. I know that they were being forced out, but I have no idea why you thought you had to go along with her stupid plan. Why they wouldn’t let you be _you_. And yeah, I said it had nothing to do with you, I know, but it’s more . . . Any company that won’t let its dancers be themselves, I’m not here for that. This is gonna fuckin’ kill you, Cas, and that’s . . . not something I’m interested in.”

Castiel shrugged. “That’s your decision,” he said.

“Damn right it’s my decision. It’s yours, too, you know.”

With that, Dean turned and left, leaving Castiel’s mind churning in his wake.

*****

“What the frack do you mean, you let him walk away?”

“I. Let. Him. Walk. Away.”

Charlie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh my GOD you are dense sometimes!”

Castiel refused to be baited. He took a long sip from his beer and said, “He’s an adult, Charlie, and so am I. We’re allowed to want different things.”

“But you _literally_ want the same thing! Okay, facts. He wants to dance, yes?”

“I fail to see—”

“ _Yes?!_ ”

“Yes.”

“You want to choreograph, yes?”

Castiel sighed. “Yes.”

“You want to be together.”

“. . . yes.”

“And _he_ wants to be together?”

“He didn’t really say—” She leveled him with a glare. “Yes. I think so, yes.”

“Okay, so the thing that’s holding you back is, what? Loyalty to a dance company? Castiel, you’re both fabulous dancers, you could get jobs _anywhere_. And not every company has such archaic rules about dancers dating choreographers, anyway. It’s not like you have control over casting!”

“The only other company I would consider going to has a non-competition agreement with the board.”

“Crowley’s? Please, there’s got to be others out there just as good.”

Castiel floundered on something to say, so he just kept drinking. Charlie shook her head at him.

“Gabriel took over the board today.”

Castiel spat a mouthful of beer over his coffee table, accidentally splattering Charlie’s knees. He mopped at it all hastily, muttering apologies. “Why didn’t I know?”

“He didn’t want you to. Roman got caught up in that scandal with the mayor. Apparently he’s been participating in insider trading since the mid-nineties.”

“Gabriel is the board president.”

Charlie grinned. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think that was the most important piece of information here?”

“Well, no. I figured you’d have to admit how much you’re stupid in love with Winchester to have the balls to do anything with this information.”

Castiel felt lighter than he had in months, but . . . “Do you think he still wants me?”

Charlie’s smile just got wider. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

*****

The sun-warmed studio smelled like worn leather and sweat. It might have actually been hot inside, since it _was_ July, after all, or it could have just been Castiel’s nerves making him sweat through his t-shirt and dance pants. It had been Crowley’s stupid idea to have him work with the summer workshop for new company members, and it had been Charlie’s to have him make some kind of grand entrance. Crowley had rolled his eyes, but then offered to make the introduction, anyway.

It had been two months since he’d seen Dean last, but Charlie assured him that Dean was still pining. He’d received some kind of garbled, drunken text message one night from Dean’s number. Charlie told him later that it was the night of Sam and Eileen’s engagement party. He hadn’t gotten anything since.

He paced a little just out of sight of the studio doors. It was difficult to hear through the sound-dampening walls and doors, but he thought he still could make out Crowley’s voice. The man had always been long-winded, but Castiel was grateful to him.

“Of course we want you, Feathers,” Crowley said. “What do you think I’ve been hinting at for months? There will be a substantial pay cut, I hope you understand.”

After that, Gabriel had simply laughed when he handed in his resignation, long and loud, until Castiel finally gave up and left his office.

He hadn’t heard from Naomi or Zachariah since they were forced to leave the board. Not that he had made much of an effort.

Finally, the studio door opened, and a hand beckoned him inside. He held his breath as he rounded the corner.

“. . . without much further ado, Mr. Castiel Novak, new company choreographer.”

The small group in front of him was mostly young, probably mostly in their early-twenties. New recruits, some on their first company contract. He recognized the bright-eyed looks of awe on the faces of the greenhorns.

There were a few older dancers, too. Transfers from other companies hoping for a promotion, or just a change of pace. They looked hungry, too, but in a different way than the youngsters.

And there, at the barre in the middle, was Dean.

Who looked like he was about to throw up or throw a punch. It made Castiel want to duck either way.

“Um, hello,” Castiel said to the room, but mostly to Dean.

“Hey, Crowley, I need a minute with Mr. Choreographer,” Dean said tersely.

“By all means,” Crowley intoned.

Dean grabbed his wrist and led him straight back out of the doors.

“Dude, what the fuck?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry. Please, if you’ll let me, I can explain—”

“You don’t call me for _months_ , and then you show up here?!”

“You didn’t call me, either, Dean.”

A shocked-looking office intern passed them, gawking at them as she went. They both managed to hold back until she had rounded the corner. The interruption had taken some of Dean’s steam, and when he spoke again it was hushed.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel wrung his hands. “I work here.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not. I do.”

Dean let out some kind of a squeak that Castiel was sure he’d never admit to. “Wh- _why_?”

“Because I love you.”

That was decidedly _not_ what Castiel had meant to say. He’d meant to say something about Gabriel, or about the freedom Crowley’s company provided to him, or about how he never felt as fulfilled as an artist as he did when he was building beautiful dances with Dean . . .

“Bullshit,” Dean said again, but with far less venom. Castiel took a deep breath.

“I assure you, Dean, that all of this . . . doing this, is very much for me. But . . . that includes telling you . . . asking you . . . I am never more myself than when we are together. And I would like to get a chance to explore that with you. If you would like. Here.”

Dean gaped like a fish for so long that Castiel started to wonder if something was seriously wrong. Finally, all at once, he surged forward and grabbed Castiel by the collar of his shirt, dragging him in for a sloppy, probing, _relieving_ kiss.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean whispered against Castiel’s lips when he pulled back.

“Dean, I really don’t appreciate when you—”

Dean cut him off again, pressing their lips together firmly, decisively, and Castiel melted. He finally wrapped Dean in his arms, Dean’s hands tangled in Castiel’s hair, and the kiss went on and on, even after Crowley passed them and muttered, “For God’s sake, get a room.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel breathed when he could again. Dean laughed quietly, tilting his head back to the ceiling before gently lowering it to press against Castiel’s forehead.

“Me, too.” He bit his lower lip as he stared into Castiel’s eyes across the short distance between them. “And, for the record . . . I love you, too.”

Castiel’s heart soared.


	5. Act V: Finale

**The New York Times**

**Arts & Entertainment**

Seven years ago, ballet enthusiasts around the world mourned the premature retirement of international phenomenon Castiel Novak. Critics were convinced that with his departure, audiences could expect to have inadequate replacements paraded in front of them until the next “greatest in a generation” appeared.

Dean Winchester’s stunning debut at the New York Ballet Company turned doubtful heads, causing some to muse that perhaps Novak was less “once in a generation,” but rather one half of a complementary duo that brought performance halls to their feet.

When the two left The Company to elevate other, smaller companies to new heights, it seemed that the pair was unstoppable. “Unparalleled chemistry,” raved a review in this very paper upon the premiere of Novak’s first realized full-length ballet in which he starred with Winchester. It simply could not be manufactured.

At the time of publishing, Novak and Winchester’s partnership will have become a life-long one. The two were married in a small, private, civil ceremony in Winchester’s home town of Lawrence, Kansas. The honeymoon is certain to be brief, as Winchester is set to perform for the first time as Prince Siegfried in _Swan Lake_ as a special guest on the New York Ballet Company stage.

As longtime fans of the arts, ballet, and love in general, we here at the _Times_ would like to wish Dean and Castiel congratulations, and break a leg on the rest of your journey together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dean and Cas's first dance :-)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9EDSSuwM1M&t=91s) (Travis Wall and Ricky Ubeda of Shaping Sound)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Your kudos and comments mean a lot to me, so thank you very much. Make sure you check out the rest of the 2019 Pinefest collection!


End file.
